Clever
by simplyxlovely
Summary: "What a nimble little girl." Holmes told with a smirk. "I prefer the term clever." she corrected with a shy smile, "Sounds better, heh." Marisol Vallas was ordinary but there were moments when she would surprise Sherlock with that quick wit of hers. Moments that made him appreciate the average but hate the emotions that risen from it. Sherlock Holmes/OC
1. Intro-Deducing

_Hello, hello. Lovely here to welcome you aboard this venture into the world that is Sherlock. I've been planning this story for awhile now. Many drafts had been written before settling on the current plot line. **Clever.** will be following the episodes of the show with my character thrown in, just in case any of you are wondering. Well, enough chatter from me. Hope you all in enjoy. **~SxL**_

_**-Clever.**_

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently) for language, some suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

_**-TV-based**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter One:

_"Intro-Deducing"_

**[Location unknown]**

"_Deep breath..deep breath.." _

The mantra echoed in his head as he stood with the other soldiers. He had to stay calm, stay steady. But that was hard to do once the gunfire and explosions came; mingled with the shouts of his comrades and the enemies. He was an important asset to the team. Without him, more men would probably die. He never thought about how much he was preventing God's natural work until in the field. That was a mistake and when he thought like that, he had to steel himself from religion. He couldn't hesitated, not now. But it was easier done than said. Taking another man's life, even if evil, was difficult but mandatory. It was all together disorienting, overwhelmingly traumatic, almost to the point of snapping..which he did.

* * *

**[Somewhere in modern-day London, England]**

Dr. John Watson jumped from sleep with a terrified shout that echoed in his bedroom..well, if you would call it that. It was more of an open space with his bed in one corner and the doorway to the small kitchen area in another. So basically, he was living in what would have been used as a living room for the diminutive apartment. His frighten, light blue eyes scanned the dim-lit room in search of wartime phantoms. When satisfied his past was just that, he let a sigh escape before flopping back down on his cot.

A smothering and frustrating sadness consumed him that had a sob choked out of his mouth but no tears fell. He was too proud for that. The war veteran tried to sleep again once composed only with zero success. He laid in bed for a few moments staring at the ceiling when a knock made his gaze drift in its direction. There, peeking around the corner leading to the short hallway to the only bedroom in the flat and bathroom, a young Greek woman stood. She was dressed in adorable blue Chinese motif pajamas and reading glasses were perked low on her nose. She looked and spoke with concern.

"I heard you shout. Was it another nightmare?"

John sat up, appearing exhausted. "Uh, yes. Sorry to have woke you."

"It's fine. I was up writing anyway." she shrugged, coming further inside. Watson glanced at the clock on his desk across the room. 3:40 am, it read.

"This late? Sure you don't have insomnia, Marisol?" he asked, worried like any doctor would.

An annoyed expression was given to him. "Yes, for the thousandth time. I was just finishing something up for Mrs. Montgomery. I was about to go to bed when I heard you."

The man looked away, embarrassed. "Oh.." Her dark eyes roamed over him for a moment. Without warning, she sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled him into a hug; his head resting on her chest with hers on top of his own.

"Things will get better..they just have to." He sighed, closing his eyes. She always said that during his rough times since returning. The young woman was so motherly for someone so young and with no children herself. Whenever he noted it, she would simply say it was a common trait for 'Vallas' women.

Marisol Vallas was a pretty as well as smart, twenty-four year old. She was currently studying to become a writer, learning under Professor Agatha Montgomery at Goldsmiths as her assistant. Since a child, she had loved books. She never had many friends growing up because of being a tad timid and introverted. She preferred to stick her nose in a novel and get lost in the world of either fiction or non than conduct and form normal social skills with other children her age. Though at home with family or friends known for a long time, only then, did Marisol come out of her tightly-wrapped cocoon. Then she was witty, adventurous, and playful but ever observant and resolute. The young woman was still the same to this day.

As a pleasant serene enveloped Watson, a feminine hand touched the back of his neck with these blank words following: "Uck, you're sweaty." She released him and stood, leaving to disappear in the hall.

Blue eyes blinked, watching. "Well..goodnight then."

"I'm not going to bed!" came her shout along with the sound of running water.

"Marisol, if you're—" John called, sounding firm.

"Shush, sit on the edge of the bed, and remove your shirt, old man." interrupted her demanding order. He stared after her before complying with rolled eyes.

"Firm like her father.." It wasn't long before she returned, carrying a plastic bowl filled with warm water and a cloth. Sitting beside him, she began gently cleaning his skin of sweat. The two sat in silence until John broke it.

"I'm a thirty-nine year old man yet I feel like I'm eighty with a live in nurse when you do this." the veteran complained, "Just because I have a limp which makes me dependable of a cane and the occasional nightmare doesn't mean I'm helpless."

"I know but there's nothing wrong with a little help." Vallas replied, holding back the rest of what she wanted to add to that response.

He looked at her with his lighter-colored eyes, serious. "But you shouldn't. You're twenty-four with so much still ahead of you. You need to live your life instead of watching out for me." She met his gaze briefly then glanced at the scar on his left shoulder bitterly.

"I know..but it's hard." He nodded in mute understanding.

Michael, Marisol's father, had been his best friend since his beginning days at _Barts_. John was there for his wedding and the birth of his daughter. So, he had practically seen Marisol grow up. He loved the girl like his own. Her father and him had been in the medical field. Michael knew the risks with joining the war and made Watson promise to look after the young woman if anything happen to him. He died looking out for John during an ambush mission. Marisol was fifteen at the time. Watson, being legally her godfather, got sole custody of her afterwards since her mother had died while she still was a small child and her grandmother being too old to look after her now. It had only been a couple of months since his own discharge and Marisol felt obligated to return the favor. But John, being the proud man he was also, didn't want her wasting her life caring for him.

"After your injury I'm afraid if I take my eyes off you, you'll disappear forever." Marisol whispered, resting her forehead on his bare shoulder.

"Okay, have we been reading _Poe_ again?" John told, teasing. She always brooded after reading his work. "I'll always be here for you. I am now even after everything." A silent nod was given. He patted her short curly chocolate brown hair as he always did when she was upset. Inside, he said the words he couldn't say out loud that moment.

"_That's why I think it's best I leave.."_

* * *

**[John & Marisol's flat; 6:45am]**

Having been able to get some sleep after talking with Marisol, John had just taken a shower and made some coffee to go with his apple breakfast before easing himself down at his desk. In a side drawer, he removed his laptop which hid his handgun underneath. Upon opening the portable computer, the title 'The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson' was seen on the main page. Said person stared at the screen, not sure what to write. That kind of media wasn't something he had been used to when his therapist suggested it. Luckily for him, he had a tech savvy goddaughter who got him update to the times. But the blog was blank and had been for the past two weeks. The veteran didn't know where to begin.

"..John!"

The man startled and whipped around in his chair. "Ah! Yes?" Marisol stood at the door snugged in her beige trench coat and dark blue and tan slouch backpack slung over one shoulder.

She gave him a slightly annoyed look. "Zoning out again, I see. I said I'm heading off."

"This early?"

"I have a date." the young woman told nonchalantly.

"A date?" John blinked with surprise before becoming stern. "And is this date with a boy?"

"You know you're the only man for me, John Watson." She came over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "And no, it's with _a girl_." Vallas burst out laughing when her godfather's eyes almost seemed to pop out of his head at that statement. "Kidding! It's a study date with a girl in my linguistics class."

"Oh. Good. No, I mean, that's all right if you were, uh, you know—" Watson rambled, embarrassed.

"How's your blog doing?" Vallas asked, moving on to a different subject when seeing his laptop. He sighed in relief; thankful for the change.

"..Um.." he drawled, unsure how to respond.

"Still nothing, huh?" she deadpanned.

"Yeah, pretty much." John agreed quickly.

"Well, don't tell your shrink that when you see her today. She reprimand you, for sure." Marisol headed back to the door and before leaving, glanced back at him. "Oh, stop by the park afterwards. I'll treat you to a coffee."

"Wouldn't miss it." he smiled warmly, promising.

* * *

**[Later that day—Therapy session; 11:45am]**

"How's your blog going?" John wanted to laugh at being asked almost a similar question twice in one day. But instead, he took the young woman's earlier advice and lied.

"Yeah, good." He cleared his throat. Very good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?' his therapist noted correctly, calling him out on his bluff.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." he countered back.

"And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean?" The man just briefly smirked in response. "John, you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

"..Nothing happens to me." Watson honestly told..or so he believed.

While nothing of interest was happening for John, many others were experiencing a more fascinating and similar occurrence but not one of a pleasant sort. No, it was more sinister than perceived by the average human mind and this is what happen:

**[October 12****th****]**

_Scenario: A business man is leaving the crowded Heathrow Airport, talking on a cell phone with a woman._

"_What do you mean, there's no ruddy car?_" A middle-aged woman is seen dressed work-appropriate in a normal glass office, walking around as she talked to a man on the other line. It was his secret lover and both were married.

"He went to Waterloo, I'm sorry. Get a cab!"

"_I never get cabs!_" said man stated, sounding annoyed.

"..I love you." she whispered with a smile.

"When?" he smirked.

"Get a cab!" the woman ordered playfully. They hanged up then. When the man is next seen, he is unscrewing the cap of a small, clear, pill bottle. Inside were two capsules filled with tiny white and pink specks. He removed one and ate it. Some time after, he laid on his side dying in an abandoned glass building.

_2__nd__ scenario: a live press conference addressing the dead business man's apparent suicide. _

"My husband was happy man who lived life to the full. He loved his family and his work, and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him." read the man's upset wife from a written statement. The unbeknown lover off to the side, silent and grieving as well.

**[November 26****th****]**

_Scenario: Two young men are caught in the rain; one with an umbrella and another without. _

"Yes, yes! Taxi!" one man tried to hail a cab driving by and was ignored. He turned to his friend before hurrying away. "I'll be back in two minutes, mate."

"What?"

"I'm just going home to get my umbrella."

"You can share mine." his pal offered.

"Two minutes, all right?" he said, not taking his offer and disappeared around the corner. Two minutes came and went and then more passed as well. His impatient mate left in search of him but it was in vain. He was in a closed sports center holding the same bottle as the business man had. The same results happen to him also. A newspaper article was written about his death.

**[January 27****th****]**

_Scenario: A birthday party in being held for a middle-aged woman by her coworkers. A younger woman and man are talking at a bar._

"She still dancing?"

"Yeah, if you can call it that."

"Did you get the car keys off her?" asked the man.

The woman dangled them in front of him. "Got them out of her bag."

He faced the dancing crowd, not spying her. "Where is she?" The woman they were discussing was the birthday girl herself who had left the party and was by her car. Drunk, she rooted around in her purse finding not car keys. She is then seen somehow having gotten into a storage unit, sobbing loudly. The suicide pills sit in front of her on the floor waiting..

**[Scotland Yard's Press Conference room; 11:50am on January 28****th****]**

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London." stated Sergeant Sally Donovan to the press. Behind her on a screen were the three similar suicide victims—Sir Jeffery Patterson, Beth Davenport, and James Phillimore. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." She looked at the older man sitting beside her, handing it over to him.

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" asked a male reporter.

"Well, they all took the same poison." he answered, "Um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indication—"

"But you can't have serial suicides."

"Well, apparently you can."

"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" queried a black male reporter.

"There's no link we've found yet," told Lestrade, "But we're looking for it—there has to be one." Everyone's phone beeped simultaneously with the same anonymous text message:

_Wrong!_

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them." Donovan informed smoothly.

"It just says 'wrong'."

"Yes, well, just ignore that." she said, becoming a bit frazzled. "If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"If they're suicides, what are you investigating?" added the black man.

"As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. Um, but it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating." Again, another text.

_Wrong!_

"Says 'wrong' again." The two officers glanced warily at each other. This was getting somewhat out of hand and needed to end quickly.

"One more question."

A woman reporter spoke then. "Is there any chance that these are murders? And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

"I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, poison was _clearly_ self-administered.

"Yes, but if they _are_ murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" she persisted.

"Well, don't commit suicide." Lestrade simply replied, not realizing his mistake until Sally whispered subtly.

"_Daily Mail._" A newspaper which they had a bad run in before with.

"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people," he tried to ease, "But all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." Same text message once more:

_Wrong!_

Except for Lestrade, who's read:

_You know where _

_to find me. _

_SH_

The conference was ended shortly afterwards. The officers returned to the Homicide department.

"You've got to stop him doing that." the sergeant complained to her superior. "He's making us look like idiots."

"If you can tell me _how_ he does it, I'll stop him." the man told her, walking away.

* * *

**[Hyde Park; 12:17pm on January 28****th****]**

"Geez, she called you out just like that?" Marisol stated, surprised. "She's better than I thought..I mean, your poker face is almost unbreakable."

John glanced at her, incredulous. "Almost?"

She smirked behind her coffee. "Yep, _almost_." He nudged her shoulder playfully. The two continued walking, chatting idly when she suddenly asked,

"You miss it, don't you?"

"Miss..Miss what?"

"The war..the chaos." the young woman stated softly.

"No, I don't. What gave you that ruddy idea?" the man questioned, baffled.

"You always seem tense when you're out in town..like you can't adjust to regular life anymore."

"That's..That's true. I've been stuck in a battlefield for a long time, so of course it would take me some time to get back to normal." His tone sounded subtly defensive.

"Hmm.." Vallas said, dropping the subject. A silence fell over them until someone called out the man's name.

"John!" He kept walking though the young woman gave him a curious but amused look. "John Watson!" The voice sounded closer, meaning he had to stop and address them. The duo turned to seeing a portly man with glasses.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford." the man reminded, "We were at Barts together. You, me, and Michael."

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello." Watson greeted his old colleague with a handshake.

"Yeah, I know, I got fat." joked Mike.

"No, no." John denied half-heartedly.

"Oh, no.." Vallas suddenly said, glancing at her watch. "I've gotta go catch the Tube if I'm to make in back in time for my next class." She then looked to her friend apologetically, knowing well he didn't really want to be left alone with Mike.

"Go on. It's fine, really." he smiled softly. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way."

"No problem at all." she told, kissing him goodbye on the cheek. She gave a polite nod to Stamford before finally dashing away.

"Girlfriend?" smirked slyly Stamford once she was gone. "Quite _young_, eh?"

"..Goddaughter." Watson replied with narrowed eyes. "_Michael's_ daughter."

"Oh..Um, so I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at." Mike stated, quickly changing the subject. "What happened?"

"..I got shot."

"Oh..sorry." They sat down on a bench together then.

"Are you still at _Barts_, then?" the veteran asked him.

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." John chuckled lightly at his honest statement. "What about you? Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension."

"You couldn't bear to be anywhere else." Mike said with a smile, "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm _not_ the John Watson.." the doctor said harshly. A small silence fell between them for a moment.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

Watson gave a humorless laugh. "Yes, like that's going to happen."

"I don't know, get a flatshare or something?" Stamford offered helpfully.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" John questioned, incredulous. Mike laughed. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"..Who was the first?"

* * *

**[Same day—Basement level: Barts' Morgue; 12:18pm]**

A tall and oddly striking man with short, curly but almost wavy, dark brown hair and clear blue eyes unzipped a body bag and observed the corpse briefly inside, taking a little sniff. He was dressed immaculately with a long black trench coat with a navy blue scarf. Underneath those were a black suit jacket and pants with a button-down collar dress shirt minus a vest and polished dark dress shoes.

"How fresh?"

"Just in. 67, natural causes." answered sweetly genial Molly Hopper—an employee at _Barts_ and long-time acquaintance of the man. "Used to work here. I knew him, he was nice."

The man zipped the body back up, facing her with tenuous smile. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." A few moments later, Molly watched cringing from the viewing window as he struck the dead body violently with said instrument for a long while. She came back inside once he was finished.

"So..bad day, was it?" she assumed teasingly from his display of vicious eagerness.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes." her acquaintance told indifferently, writing something down in a black hand notebook. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Listen, I was wondering." Molly suddenly blurted, nervous. "Maybe later, when you're finished—" He glanced at her in brief but looked again but fully the next time, having noticed something different about her.

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before." he interrupted.

"I, er..I refreshed it a bit." the woman smiled, a tad taken off-guard.

"Sorry, you were saying?" He went back to writing.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." she asked with more confidence now; an obvious invitation to a date.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." the man informed, having misinterpreted her. He snapped his book closed and quickly left the room with his things.

"..Okay." Hopper said meekly, getting his request.

* * *

**[First Level—Barts' Research laboratory; 12:29pm]**

In the lab, the eccentric man was working when a knock came at the door. He either addressed it or spoke for whoever it was to enter. The door opened anyway, revealing Mike Stamford and John Watson. He peered away from his work to look at them before proceeding again without a word.

"..Bit different from my day." John noted, observing the place.

His old colleague chuckled. "You've no idea!"

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" the apathetic man asked suddenly, "There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" queried the portly man.

"I prefer to text." came his simple reply.

"..Sorry, it's in my coat." Mike said after searching.

"Er, here..use mine." Watson offered politely then, removing his _Sidekick_.

The dark-haired man addressed him for the first time. "Oh, thank you." He stood then and walked over to take it.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Stamford introduced. The man took the phone with not so much as a 'nice to meet you' or 'I'm..or My name is..' He began texting when questioning,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John blinked, taken back by the out-there question all the while Mike watched with a knowing smirk.

"Sorry?"

Light blue eyes glanced at him."Which was it, in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—"

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you." The timid woman came in then with his requested coffee at last. The phone was handed back to John as he took the drink from her.

"What happened to the lipstick?" he pondered to her.

"It wasn't working for me." she stated, smiling lightly.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." The man turned away, returning to his lab station. "Your mouth's too small now."

"Okay." Hopper said quietly before leaving.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Watson glanced at the retreating Molly and then Stamford before realizing he was the one being talked to.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking." he was informed, "And sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" The man looked towards the doctor with a smile. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"You told him about me?" John asked his colleague.

The portly man shook his head. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." the eccentric man declared; now placing on his coat and scarf. "Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" the veteran inquired, serious.

His question went unanswered. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He headed for the door.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" the man turned back to John.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" he blandly stated.

"Problem?" the stranger asked simply.

Watson gave Mike a disbelieving smile before saying, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan." the man rambled quickly off, "I know you've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." His light-colored eyes drifted to his leg and cane. "And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" John was left speechless.

The man went to leave again before doing so, lastly added, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked at him. "Afternoon."

The doctor glanced at Stamford. "Yeah. He's always like that." he told before his colleague even asked.

**-TBC-**

* * *

So, what did you think? Let me know with a review. Polite constructive criticism is always welcome!

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	2. Consulting Holmes

_Was in the writing mood today and managed to finish this chapter ahead of schedule. Loving the support for this story. You guys are great! This one will be dedicated to the two reviewers below. **~Lovely**_

_**lostfeather1**: Ah! Hello again! I'm glad to see your excitement for my new story. Thanks for supporting this one as well. Much love to you! *big hug* _

_**Lady Canela**: Ohmysherlock! I had no idea! *embarrassed blush* It's means something completely different in Greek/Italian. Thanks for telling me though, haha. _

* * *

_**-Clever.**_

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently)for language, some suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

_**-TV-based**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter Two:

_"Consulting Holmes"_

**[John and Marisol's flat; 1:36pm on January 28th]**

Once back home an hour later, the first thing John did was sit on his bed and had a contemplating thought. He then received his phone and went to his messages.

Messages- Received

- **Sent**

If brother has a green ladder

arrest brother.

SH

"_What does that mean?" _Watson thought, _"What the bloody hell does that man do?"_ He decided to try and find anything on the internet about a 'Sherlock Holmes.'

* * *

**[Location Unknown]**

A woman dressed all in pink slowly crouched down and picked up the suicide pill bottle from the floor. She was the next victim..

* * *

**[John and Marisol's Flat; 5:53pm on January 29th]**

The small stereo on the kitchen counter was playing which meant Marisol was busy cleaning. John would be able to sneak out and meet Sherlock. He hadn't told her about his possible moving out because..he wasn't too sure about it himself. Also, he still didn't know how to tell her. So when her back was turned, he quietly but quickly hurried to the door. Just as he turned the knob, her voice came calling.

"And where are you sneaking off to?" she faced him with a sly smirk, leaning her hip against the counter.

"Sneaking? I'm not sneaking." he lied smoothly, "I'm going for a walk. It'll help my limp."

"Liar. I could tell you're hiding something. You've been increasingly silent and fidgety as the time passed. What have you got to hide from me?"

The older man stared at her before saying defeated, "I'm going to meet a potential flatmate." Her dark eyes widen. "I'm sorry..I just didn't know how to tell you yet."

Her gaze soften understandingly. "It's okay, John." She sighed, running a hand through her wavy locks. "I guess my overbearing attention would be enough to make you want to move out.."

"You know it's not that. I've told you many times why I should leave." A bright smile formed on his face. He seemed to only do that around her—be calm, normal even.

"And you're right. I'm just stubborn is all." the young woman said, "So, you're suppose to meet the person now?"

"Seven, actually." he told, "Thought if I left now, I would make it there in time by cab depending on traffic."

She shook her head. "That won't do. The Tube would be a bit quicker and I'll pay for the trip."

Her godfather narrowed his blue eyes. "There's a catch, isn't there?"

"There always is." Marisol tossed the wet rag she had been using for cleaning in the sink and walked towards her room to change. "I'm coming along. I want to meet this possible flatmate of yours. It'll make me a bit approving of this. Deal?"

"Deal..but there's some things I should warn you about him."

"Things?" She paused and faced him curiously. "What things?"

* * *

**[On the sidewalk in front of 221B Baker Street; 6:57pm]**

"He can read people from just a simple glance?" Vallas repeated, incredulous. "Bollocks!" The two were walking down the sidewalk, having gotten off the Tube. Baker Street was located in Westminster and a thirty-one minute subway ride from their apartment in south-east London. 221B was next door to a cafe called _Speedy's _that didn't seem very busy at that moment. The building itself looked out of place for its old fashion design in the heart of London where modern glass buildings were just a ways down the street.

"Keep being skeptical then. But you'll see soon enough." Watson shrugged.

"Look forward to it." deadpanned the young woman, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets. They stepped to the door and John reached to knock with the metal rapper when a voice appeared behind them.

"Hello." The duo turned around to see Sherlock paying a cabbie, having just arrived as well.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." greeted John politely.

"Sherlock, please." the man told, shaking his hand once in front of them. His lighter-colored gaze drifted to the young woman who stood by John tight-lipped and attentive, becoming withdrawn as she always did with new people. Either said a word as they observed each other. Marisol, he found to be an appealing young woman from her authentic Greek features and held herself together well from her clothing—a designer beige trench coat, a mustard yellow knit sweater over a white collared shirt, slim fitted black trousers with well-kept tennis shoes. She wasn't showy with her obvious beauty, keeping it mostly natural. There was a maternal air to her and she had a belief in God, noted from the rosary wrapped around her wrist that next moment.

Vallas averted her eyes as he continued to stare, tucking some hair behind her ear. His look was very intimidating. As he quickly assessed her, she had done the same briefly. She thought him to be strangely handsome with his intriguing features and clear blue eyes as well as dressed suavely with sophisticated mannerisms. But there was also an evident arrogance and apathetic disregard towards people and things and something else she couldn't quite place her tongue on. So far, she was leery of him. John glanced curiously between them before introducing each other.

"Marisol, this is Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock, this is Marisol Vallas, my goddaughter."

"Evening." Holmes greeted at last. She just nodded, uttering the same. "..You intern for Professor Agatha Montgomery in the English & Comparative Literature Department at _Goldsmiths_, no?"

Dark brown eyes blinked, blurting. "How did you—"

"_The crest half hidden by your trench coat on your sweater is of Goldsmiths. I spied the fading ink stain on the bottom of your hand when you tucked your hair. Possibly from writing on a dry board and accidentally smudging the ink several times. You're too young to be qualified as a teacher there yet, so an intern and student is more likely so you can gain more experience. As for being under Professor Montgomery, she is known to have two cinnamon apple air fresher always in her office that are very strong smelling. Someone who tends to spend a lot of time there would happen to carry the scent on them which is coming from the coat you frequently wear due to the fray._" He smiled at her. "That's how I know." Marisol stood there gaping, absolutely speechless.

John nudged her, smirking. "Told you."

She cleared her throat, composing herself. "You noticed all of that just from looking at me and summed it to that fact?"

"Quite." Sherlock nodded. There were other things he noticed about her—she was obviously shy and wary of new people. She had a nervous habit of either tucking her hair or biting her lip. She doesn't like looking directly into someone eyes for too long and became restlessly when stared at. Though she observed people and things when no one was looking. She was also protective of her godfather and his safe being since possibly having lost a love one before. But he kept all that information to himself, being courteous this time.

"..Awesome." the young woman complimented, blushing faintly at her admittance. A pleased smirk formed on the man's face. It was rare when he got such an honest but kind respond for his gift.

"Well, this is a prime spot." the doctor noted of the building then. "Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady—she's given me a special deal." the genius stated, knocking on the door and they waited patiently. "Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Wait, sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh, no, I ensured it." he smiled just as the door opened to reveal the old woman. The godchild and parent glanced at each other, surprised at that statement.

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson greeted warmly, giving him a hug. He returned it, adding a small kiss on her cheek.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson." Holmes introduced once done, "And his goddaughter, Marisol Vallas."

"Hello. Come in." she told them with a tender smile.

"Thank you." they said with a smile of their own, heading inside out of the cold.

* * *

**[221B: Sherlock's room; 7:06pm]**

"Shall we?" Sherlock lead them up a flight of stairs to the second landing. He and the young woman waited by the door for a bit until John, unable to walk quickly due to his limp, finally joined them before opening it. The room itself was pleasant looking noted from its' Victorian styled wallpaper, decorated fireplace, and two tall curtained rectangle-panel windows if not for the cluttering disarray of various stuff all around. Even the adjoined kitchen was in a similar state. The young woman mentally shook her head at the mess, suppressing her instinct to tidy up. But a smirk formed on her pink lips when spying the bull skull wearing headphones on the wall across which she found unique and cool. She stayed put in the doorway though while the two men went inside.

"Well, this could be very nice." John said, peering about the room. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes." agreed his possible flatmate. "Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely."

"So I went straight ahead and moved in." Sherlock added then.

"—Soon as we get this rubbish cleaned up." John said this at the same time. "Oh. So this is all.." Sherlock began to replace some items. Though he was good at hiding it, he was a bit embarrassed

"Well, obviously I can, ahem, straighten things up a bit." he said smoothly, placing some papers in a box and on the mantel which he held down by stabbing a pocketknife through them.

"That's a skull." pointed John. Marisol perked at the mention of it, coming in for a closer look.

"Friend of mine." the eccentric replied, pausing for a second. "When I say friend.." He trailed off. She now stood in front of it, staring curiously. Shy brown eyes shifted to him, silently asking. He understood from her simple look. "Yes, feel free but with care." Her slender hands gently lifted the skull then, caressing the old bone with light fingertips and a faint smile. The genius stepped away with one as well. There was another but surprising fact about her to add to his memory banks—that like himself, she also had an appreciation for the macabre. Mrs. Hudson had joined the trio.

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" she asked the man. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two." John told, confused.

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here." the old woman reassured, "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She whispered the last part before going into the kitchen. John blinked, understanding now that she believed he was gay and moving in with Sherlock as his lover not just as a flatmate.

"Pfft." John turned, facing a trying-not-to-laugh Marisol with a blank, unamused expression. She had understood the subtle hint too. She grinned innocently, placing Sherlock's 'friend' back.

"Oh, Sherlock! The mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson scolded when seeing the state of the kitchen. The three got comfortable then—Holmes, having removed his coat and scarf, and was moving about the room. John sat in an armchair and Marisol sitting on the arm of the same chair, staying close to her family.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." informed Watson when he saw Sherlock opening a black laptop on the cluttered table.

"Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. _The Science of Deduction_."

Sherlock smiled, interested. "What did you think?" He was given a look which made him frown.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie," the doctor quoted, "And an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

The young woman raised a brow. _"Really? That simple?"_

"Yes." answered the man flatly, "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"_Is he talking about Harry?"_ thought Vallas, shocked.

"How?" John inquired, receiving of a smug smirk in response.

"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked suddenly, returning to join them and reading the newspaper. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four." he corrected, peering down out the window. There was a police car parked at the curb in front of the apartment now. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" she questioned, wondering. He faced the door just as Detective Inspector Lestrade came jogging up the stairs and into the room.

'Where?" Holmes queried, getting to the point.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." the officer responded.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did." Lestrade stated, "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" the genius asked.

"Anderson."

He gritted his teeth, angrily glancing away. "He doesn't work well with me." Meanwhile, John and Marisol watched, intrigued by their conversation.

"Well, he won't be your assistant." reassured the Inspector.

"I _need_ an assistant." stressed Sherlock.

"Will you come?" the other man pleaded, tired of having this back-and-forth banter.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." He sighed in relief, nodded to the group off to the side, and hurried away. Sherlock grinned once he was gone and jumped excitedly in the air.

"Brilliant! Yes!" he exclaimed, gleeful. He did a twirl and refitted himself with his trademark coat and scarf. "Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." she told as he walked by to receive some things from the kitchen table.

"Something cold will do." he continued, ignoring her. "John, Marisol, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" He disappeared just like that afterwards.

"Look at him, dashing about..My husband was just the same." the old woman noted to the two left. She looked to John. "But you're more of the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg." She went to head downstairs.

"Damn my leg!" he suddenly shouted, scaring both women. He quickly calm down. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing.." He smacked his limp leg to emphasized.

"I understand, dear, I've got a hip." Mrs. Hudson said, waving his outburst off.

"Cup of tea'd be lovely. Thank you." John stated then, taking the newspaper and getting comfortable now.

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em."

"Not your housekeeper!" she reminded strongly while leaving.

"Well, that was all together.._erratic_." Vallas quietly drawled, unable to come up with a better word than that to sum their first meeting.

"It was, wasn't it?" John said slowly, engrossed in the suicide article.

She glanced at John concernedly. "So you're really going to—"

"You're a doctor." They both startled and looked towards the door to find Sherlock there. His light blue eyes were landed on John. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

"Yes." he confirmed, standing to address him better.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." the genius said smoothly, walking towards him.

"Well, yes." the doctor answered simply.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

'Want to see some more?" Sherlock offered.

"Oh, God, yes." John said with dire zealousness. The young woman gaped up at him, about to disapproved but stopped herself. It was his life and she really needed to stop be so clingy. He had gotten shot and made it back whole.

"_Maybe I need to go to therapy."_ she briefly thought, shaking her head.

"You can come along as well." Holmes informed, making her come out of her inner monologue. "With your appreciation to the macabre, you might enjoy it too. So the offer stands." The two men stepped out of the room afterwards.

She blinked, hurrying after the eccentric man with her eager godfather. _"It can be a bit frightening how he does that."_

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out." John announced once in the foyer.

"The three of you?" she noted, seeing them all.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them?" Sherlock stated excitedly, grabbing her shoulders and kissing her cheek. "No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

"Look at you, all happy." the old woman smiled, smacking his arm playfully. "It's not decent. Go on then."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

* * *

**[Inside a taxi; heading towards Brixton Road; 7:34pm]**

The ride to Lauriston Gardens was mostly silent as John and Marisol kept to themselves and Sherlock texted on his _Blackberry_. The doctor sat beside him while the young woman was across them, reading a book—_The Hobbit_—she pulled from her satchel. Watson had glanced at the occupied man several times until finally, he noticed and gave in.

"Okay, you've got questions.." he sighed like there was an unwanted weight on him.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John was given a look that read 'Were you off in the clouds earlier?' But was given an answer anyway.

"Crime scene. Next?" Marisol dog-eared her book then and listened intently.

"Who are you? What do you do?" Watson questioned.

'What do you think?"

"I'd say..private detective."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives." summed John.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world." Sherlock explained, rehearsed. "I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" the man beside him queried, puzzled.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

The doctor chuckled, skeptical of his words. "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock frowned and then mentioned out of the blue. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how _did_ you know?" John pressed, wondering if he would finally get an answer.

"I didn't know, I saw." he corrected, beginning once again to prove his talent. "_Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts—so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned..but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. _Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq." He clicked his tongue when finished, obviously proud of himself.

"You said I had a therapist." added Watson stubbornly.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist." He brought his estranged sibling to the conversation. 'Then there's your brother. Your phone." He held out his hand and was given said item. "_It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this—it's a gift then._" He titled the phone so the light in the cab reflected off the touchscreen surface and then showed the back. "_Scratches. Not one, many over time—it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner._ Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving?"

"_Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live._" Clear blues drifted to the quiet young woman across him. "_Well, at least, not your own place. You've got an extended family—noted Marisol, but not one you're close to in your immediate family. So brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment._" He was speaking of the little x's in the engraving. "_The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then—six months on he's given it away. If she'd left __**him**__, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left __**her.**_"

"_He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife or you don't like his drinking._"

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John interrupted, astonished as to how he could have known.

Holmes smirked. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. _Power connection—tiny little scuffs marks round the edge. Every night he plugs it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." _The phone was handed back. "There you go, you see you were right."

"_I_ was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." he said, emphasizing each word. John stared at his given phone while Marisol stared at Sherlock with wonderment.

"That..was amazing." Watson told, awestruck.

"..Mind-blowing." Vallas blundered simultaneously.

"Do you both think so?" the genius raised brow.

"Of course it was." the veteran said; the young woman agreeing with a vigorous nod. "It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say." noted Sherlock flatly, evidently hearing worse.

"What do people normally say?" John wondered.

"'Piss off!'" was his response with an indifferent smile. John grinned, growing to like his attitude.

"People tend to not want to understand someone more advance than normal." stated Marisol softly, staring down and picking lint off her trousers. "They usually shun and hate them out of envy, leaving them outcasts and more alone with themselves than they really want to. Acceptance is all some ever wish for."

Sherlock stared at her, inwardly stunned. "My thoughts exactly..expect for that last bit."

She met his gaze then, holding it with seriousness. "Everyone wants to be accepted whether they admit it aloud or not. It's human nature."

"Do you want to be?" he asked her.

"Sometimes, don't you?" she replied blunt, tilting her head curiously.

"No." the man answered blankly.

"Liar. Your poker face is by far better than John's but I can see through the tiny cracks in your armor. You're only fooling yourself." The young woman sat back comfortably and faced the window. The two men across her were astonished. Her godfather was for she had been herself—the person he only sees every day—and it didn't take months for her to warm up to this new person before speaking so naturally. The genius was because in a rare moment, he had been surprised by her sudden bluntness. He thought the same as John from how he read her.

Clear blues narrowed with a mischievous smirk. _"Interesting.."_

**-TBC-**

* * *

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	3. Dead In Pink

_I really can't get enough of writing this story, so I've decided I'm going to try and post a chapter every week since I still have enough free time this summer. **~Lovely**_

_**-Clever.**_

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently)for language, some suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

_**-TV-based**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter Three:

_"Dead in Pink"_

**[Outside the fourth suicide: Brixton, Lauriston Gardens; 7:39pm]**

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock questioned once the trio was out of the car. They had to walk the rest of the way to the scene because of the road being roped off by the police.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have." Watson informed, "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then." the genius said, delighted. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet." revealed the doctor, making the other man pause.

"Harry's your sister." he said in a dead tone, glancing away annoyed.

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John wondered then.

"Sister!" hissed Holmes, walking again.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

He was ignored as his possible flatmate complained bitterly. "There's always something." The group arrived at the police taping and were seen by Sally Donovan.

"Hello, freak." she greeted Sherlock bleakly. The young woman frowned at her, not liking her rudeness. John felt her tension rather than saw and patted her arm calmly.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." he said without so much of a flinch at her insult.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?" she persisted with a glare.

"I think he wants me to take a look." Sherlock told crisply, meeting her gaze equally.

"You know what I think, don't you?" the woman noted.

The man replied with smugness, going under the tape without her permission. "Always, Sally." He stopped for a moment, catching a whiff of something peculiar. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

She was taken off guard, almost missing Vallas and Watson following him. "Er..who are they?"

"Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson and his assistant, Marisol Vallas." Holmes answered, "Dr. Watson, Marisol, Sergeant Sally Donovan." He said the next part sarcastically. "Old friend."

"A colleague?" she repeated, disbelieving. "How do _you_ get a colleague?" She looked to John, pointing at the man. "Did he follow you home?"

'Would it be better if we just waited—" John began.

"No." rebuked the genius, lifting the tape again for them.

Sally rolled her eyes before speaking into her walkie. "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

Marisol could stop herself and blurted curtly. "Name calling will get you no where in life. I suspected the police to be a bit more polite to someone assisting them." The older woman turned and glared at her, raising a brow. The younger froze, blushing fiercely. Luckily but surprisingly, Sherlock came to her rescue.

"Pay Donovan no mind, Ms. Vallas. She doesn't have a _civilize_ bone in her body."

She placed her glare on him instead. "Piss off, _freak_." With one last glower at the two, she marched off towards the entrance of the crime scene. Marisol let out a breath. What was wrong with her? She'd never do that before..well, not aloud. Twice in less than an hour, she had spoken freely to complete strangers. Brown eyes shifted to the man in front of her. He was smirking. 'Was he the cause of this?' she wondered. They continued on but stopped once again when an arrogant-seeming man dressed in a forensics suit came stepping out, removing his rubber gloves.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock said with boredom.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated." the man warned firmly with a mean look, "Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear." the eccentric replied and then stated, "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out." Philip Anderson said snidely, "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men—I'm wearing it." declared the other man.

Clear blues landed on the woman behind him. "So's Sergeant Donovan." Anderson faced her with shock while Sherlock sniffed the air. "Ooh..I think it just vaporized." He then asked blankly, "May I go in?" The goddaughter and parent both simpered silently

Philip pointed at him. "Now whatever you're trying to imply—"

"I'm not implying anything." he denied smoothly, walking away with his acquaintances right behind. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happen to stay over." He looked at the accused woman again and she wouldn't meet his eyes; a sign of truth to his assumption. Stopping just before entering the building, he added. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." With a smug smirk, the genius left. Watson walked by, glimpsing briefly at the sergeant's exposed knees with curiosity. Marisol followed, uttering under her breath just loud enough for Sally to hear.

"I guess professional should be added along with the politeness." Another glare was fixed on her retreating back.

* * *

**[Now inside the fourth suicide; 7:42****pm]**

The police and forensics made base in one of the rooms on the first floor of an aged, uninhabited Victorian styled housing. Upon stepping into the room, Lestrade was there getting into one of the blue forensic suits.

"You'll need to wear one of these." Sherlock told John, gesturing to a folded one on a table.

"Don't I need to as well?" Vallas asked him softly.

"No, as long as you promise to stay off to the side like a good girl." smiled tightly the genius.

"Uh..sure." she agreed willingly. She liked the macabre and just seeing a dead body was enough for her. She'd leave the touching and closeness for him and John.

"Who're they?" Lestrade questioned, staring at the strangers.

"They're with me." Holmes replied simply, replacing his leather gloves for rubber.

"But who are they?" pressed the other man.

"I said they're with me." he was told with a firm voice and stare. The Inspector left it alone.

"Aren't you going to put one on?" Watson asked Sherlock when spying him only placing on gloves. He was also fixed with a firm stare and dropped the subject, doing as he was instructed before. The young woman made mentally note not to say a word unless asked or necessary then.

"So where are we?" the consulting detective inquired.

"Upstairs." Once everyone was ready, the four headed up. "I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer."

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

When they were lead inside the room, the victim was there for all to see, not covered by a sheet since her death wasn't on a high level of gruesome. No, the woman—dressed all in monstrous pink from her manicured nails to stiletto shoes—just seem to be pass out from the way she laid. She was face down on her stomach with both arms bent at an angle next to her head. Her legs though appeared, to Marisol, oddly positioned—they were very close together and straight. She believed that if someone who had taken those pills mentioned in the paper would have been found in a more sprawled or coiled position, not one that looked posed. She kept this information to herself and let the genius do his work.

Said person stared at the body for a moment before suddenly blurting to Lestrade, "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying." he stated sharply. The officer looked at the two strangers who were stun just as he. They then watched Holmes slowly approach the body. His gaze was drawn to the floorboards by the woman's left hand. _'Rache_' had been scratched; noted from the chipped nail polish on the pointer and middle fingers.

_left-handed_

_Rache_

_german (n.) revenge -_

_f_

_p_

_Rache(l)_

The man crouched by the body, swiping a hand across the back of her coat. He looked at his glove.

—_wet_

Next in her coat pocket, a small umbrella was removed.

—_dry_

Under the collar of her coat was the same as his previous observation—wet. Using a small magnifying glass, the gold bracelet on her left wrist and earring on her right ear were examined which looked clean and well-kept; the necklace also. But upon seeing the rings on her ring finger from the chipped nailed hand, a plain gold band was dirty.

_unhappily_

_married_

_13_

_(10+)_

_years_

Removing the wedding band and peering at the inside, it was surprisingly shiny and clean like her other jewelry. It was placed back on with a new note added—

_regularly removed_

All together equaled with the jewelry facts to which he finished with a smirk—

_**serial adulterer**_

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked then.

"Not much." Holmes replied, standing and get rid of his gloves.

"She's German." a voice came behind them in the doorway. It was Anderson. "_Rache._ It's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us—"

"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock said in an uninterested tone, striding over and closing the door in his face all while peering at his phone.

The Inspector looked to the eccentric. "So she's German?"

"Of course she's not." he denied, checking the UK Weather.

_UK Weather_

_-(__**Maps**)_

_-Local_

_-Warnings_

_-Next 24 hrs_

_-7 day forecast_

"_She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff_—so far, so obvious."

Watson blinked. "Sorry, obvious?"

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade wondered but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

"Whoa, we have a whole team outside." noted the officer.

"They won't work with me." brushed off the genius.

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here—"

"_Yes_, because you need me."

"..Yes, I do." the other man unfortunately agreed, "..God help me."

"Dr. Watson!" Sherlock shouted.

"Hm?" Said person glanced at the officer questioningly though.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." he told, defeated before leaving the three. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.." The doctor and eccentric moved over towards the body then, crouching on either side.

"Well?" Holmes uttered.

"What am I doing here?" queried the man across him instead.

"Helping me make a point." was whispered back.

"I'm supposed to help you pay the rent."

"Well, this is more fun."

"Fun?" John motioned to the dead body between them. "There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock complimented, "But I _was_ hoping you'd go deeper." The two stared at each other until Lestrade returned. John got to worked, carefully lowering himself to lean near the dead woman's face. He quietly sniffed before moving away. He checked her right wrist and hand quickly and then lifted himself up.

"Yeah..Asphyxiation..probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs."

"You know what it was, you've read the papers." the genius called out with a disappointed glare.

"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth..?" John weakly defended.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said." Lestrade told, crossing his arms. "I need anything you've got."

"All right, my turn." Sherlock said then, "_Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in Londonfor one night from the size of her suitcase._"

"Suitcase?" repeated Lestrade, incredulous.

"Yes. _She's been married at least ten years, but not happily._" he confirmed, now standing and peering as well as walking about the room. "_She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married._"

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up—"

"_Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, so it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or who does she remove her rings for? Clearly, not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them._ Simple."

"That's brilliant." blinked the young woman. He raised a brow to which she flushed and promptly apologized.

The Inspector then mentioned, "Cardiff?"

"it's obvious, isn't?"

"It's not obvious to me." John being the one to reply. Marisol nodded, coming to stand by him.

He looked at all presented with him in the room, shocked. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." His hand pointed to the woman then. "_**Her coat**__—it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours—no rain anywhere in London in that time, Under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind._"

"_She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind—too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours, because her coat still hasn't dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time._" He removed his Blackberry from his inside coat pocket and showed the screen to Lestrade and John. "_**Cardiff.**_"

"That's fantastic.." Watson praised, awestruck once more.

"Do you know you both do that out loud?" the eccentric noted to his new acquaintances quietly.

"Sorry, we'll shut up."

"No, it's..fine." he told softly.

"Why did you keep saying suitcase?" stated the officer then, interrupting their conversation.

"Yes, where is it?" The genius went in search for the item around the room. "She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?"

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" he said with satire, "Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"So how do you know she had a suitcase?" questioned the other man.

"_Back of her right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes—conscious—could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night."_ He knelt to examined her legs again. "Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade informed him.

Sherlock slowly looked up at him. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case." he stressed, "There was never any suitcase."

Holmes rushed out of the room, shouting. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" The others followed.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" the Inspector firmly told.

"But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills." the eccentric reasoned excitedly, stopping on the stairs down. "There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." He continued rushing down the steps.

"Right, thanks. And..?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings." He clapped his hands and smiled elatedly. "We've got a serial killer. Love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade inquired with confusion.

"Her case. Come on, where is her case?" emphasized Sherlock, "Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case." He paused, staring off. "So the killer must have driven her here. Forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left it there." noted John.

"No, she never got to the hotel." rejected the man below. "Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..Oh..Oh!"

"Sherlock? What is it, what?" the Inspector asked.

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff." he ordered, "Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah—but what mistake?!"

"Pink! And Marisol, come outside with me now!"

"W-What?! Why?" the young woman questioned, baffled.

"Just come on!" She rolled her eyes and muttered words in Greek before complying.

"Marisol!" called her godfather with surprise.

"Don't worry, Watson! She's in good hands!" came Sherlock's voice from down below. John instantly didn't think so; that statement not settling well on his stomach. The Inspector and forensics team went back to work afterwards, leaving him to fend for himself.

* * *

**[Back outside the fourth murder suicide: Brixton, Lauriston Gardens; 8:10pm]**

Once making it down to the first floor and removing the containment materials from himself, Watson headed outside, thinking Sherlock and Marisol were waiting on him..They weren't. The two had disappeared from the crime scene without him. Stubbornly believing they hadn't, he walked around the taped off area in search.

"He's gone." He turned to see Donovan standing not far from where he was by a police car.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" John questioned.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that." she informed, "The cheeky girl was with him."

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

He nodded, not really surprised. "Right..Yes. Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton." the woman answered, raising a brow.

"Do you know where I could get a cab?" the doctor asked, "It's just, er..well.." He glanced down at his limp. ",,my leg."

"Er..try the main road." Sally offered, lifting the tape for him.

"Thanks." The man went under and was on the other side when she suddenly said,

"But you're not his friend. Either is the girl. He doesn't _have_ friends. So who are you?"

He turned to face her again, replying honestly. "I'm..I'm nobody. I just met him, me and her."

"Okay, bit of advice, then." the sergeant proposed, "Stay away from that guy."

"Why?"

"You know why he's here?" No response was given. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what?..One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body, and he'll be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?" John pondered, thinking all what she said was a bit outlandish.

"Because he's a psychopath." she plainly stated, "Psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" Lestrade called her then.

"Coming." Said person walked away but paused, glancing back at Watson over her shoulder. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." He shook his head once she was gone and headed towards the main road alone. But the ringing of a phone halted him at that moment. Peering to his right, a payphone stood which was the source. Instead of answering, he glanced at his watch and sighed, hurrying on his way. The ringing stopped just as he left..

**-TBC-**

* * *

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	4. Hidden Baggage

_Just wanted to let you all know I made a music mix dedicated to Marisol and Sherlock. Feel free to give it a listen. Link's on my page. Also, for any of you wondering about how their relationship will be as the story continues, to put it simply, the two have a love-hate one in the beginning and gradually leads to just one of the two.**~Lovely**_

**_-Clever._**

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently)for language, some suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

_**-TV-based**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter Four:

_"Hidden Baggage"_

**[Main street: Brixton; 8:18pm]**

"Taxi! Taxi.." John tried to hail one but none were noticing him. Finally deciding to give up, he continued walking. But when passing by a small restaurant store front, a telephone begun ringing; similar to the payphone earlier. He stopped and watched as a worker went to answer but it abruptly finished. It was starting to seem strange to the man but like before, chose to ignore it and continue on until passing another phone booth which rang. Now, it was absolutely creepy and suspicious. Curiosity getting the better of him, he went inside and answered.

"Hello?"

An unknown male voice responded. "_There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?_"

"Who's this?" No answer but either a dial tone was heard. "Who's speaking?"

"_Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?_"

He looked then, spying the object. "Yeah, I see it."

"_Watch.._" The camera moved, turning in the opposite it had been momentarily. "_There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?_"

"..Mm-hm." It moved also.

"_And finally, at the top of the building on your right._" the voice stated. Deep blue eyes looked and saw that one too do the same as the others previously.

"How are you doing this?" questioned Watson.

But all he was told was, "_Get into the car, Dr. Watson._" A black painted and dark tinted modern Cadillac pulled up to the curb in front of him. The driver stepped out and opened the back door. "_I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you._" The call was then ended. Knowing he had no choice, John complied calmly but underneath was tensed and cautious as an animal that was usually prey.

* * *

**[Destination Currently Unidentified; 8:25pm]**

He wasn't alone as he thought would be for the strange ride. A beautiful woman sat beside him but was too engrossed with her phone and texting someone. It briefly reminded him of Sherlock on their ride coming to Brixton.

"Hello." he greeted at last.

"Hi." she surprisingly answered back with a kind smile. No more words were exchanged on her end.

"What's your name, then?"

"Er..Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

She glanced at him with a smirk. "No."

"I'm John." he told her.

"Yes. I know." the woman said matter-of-fact.

"Any point in asking..where I'm going?" She gave him a look that was usually given to a puppy that did something stupid but cute.

"None at all..John."

"Okay." The doctor stopped talking all together afterwards. The drive was exceedingly long and when the car at last stopped and he was allowed to step out, his location didn't really give him answers as to why he was there except something terrible might happen. He had been dropped off at a closed warehouse of some kind and a dapper looking man stood waiting for him with a chair a few steps in front of him.

He pointed at it with an umbrella he had been using like a cane. "Have a seat, John."

"You know, I've got a phone." Watson stated, walking over gradually. "I mean, very clever and all that, but er..you could just phone me. _On my phone_." He finished his subtle complaint, standing closely but respectably a distance from the suspicious person.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes," the mysterious man informed, "One learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down." he rejected the offer crisply.

"..You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The stranger chuckled. "Yes..the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He got to business then, no longer amused. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one." John replied, "I barely know him. I met him..yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together." the man noted, "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John glared, "Who are you?"

"An interested party." he was told cryptically.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy." promptly replied the peculiar stranger.

"An enemy?" repeated the doctor, skeptical.

"In _his_ mind, certainly." he said, "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch-enemy_..He does love to be dramatic."

"Well, thank God _you're_ above all that." the veteran stated with sarcasm. An unamused look was given then and the sound of a text message alert from John's phone as well. Pulling it from his pocket, he read the text;

_Baker Street._

_Come at once_

_if convenient._

_SH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

"Not distracting me at all." drawled John before placing the phone away.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked of him.

"I could be wrong..but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't."

"If you do move into, um.." The stranger reached into his coat for a small tan handbook. He flipped a few pages until finding the one he wanted. "..221B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." The book was put away again.

"Why?" queried Watson suspiciously.

"Because you're not a wealthy man." he correctly noted.

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel..uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"_Why?_"

"I worry about him." the stranger responded, "Constantly."

John was slightly surprised by the concern. "..That's nice of you."

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a.._difficult relationship._" Another text message alert sounded. The next text said;

_If inconvenient,_

_come anyway._

_SH_

"..No." the doctor refused the offer.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure." the man pressed smoothly.

"Don't bother."

"You're very _loyal_ very quickly."

"No, I'm not, I'm just not interested."

The little tan book was shown again. "'Trust issues', it says here."

Blond brows furrowed at it. "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" the mysterious stranger pondered.

"Who says I trust him?" denied the veteran, increasingly becoming annoyed.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily..especially after the death of your goddaughter, Marisol's father."

He was livid now. "Are we done?"

His steely gaze was met with a calm one. "You tell me." John stared at him for a long moment before turning away, having had quite enough of him to bare any longer. "..I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen." He paused and shook his head, facing the man again.

"My what?"

"Show me." Watson thought about telling him off but chose against it. The quicker he did as the stranger said, the quicker he could leave and put this bizarre event behind him. So his left hand was raised for viewing. The man closed the short distance between them and reached for said extremity.

The doctor drawn it back, saying with warning. "Don't." He was given a hard look to which he obeyed. The hand was gently held and turned to the side slightly before released.

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

"Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars." the peculiar stranger stated, "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" the doctor asked composedly.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." answered the man, speaking nothing new that John didn't already know. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

John was becoming defensive now, snapping. "Who the hell are you?" The person raised a brow and he calmed himself once more. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her." he was told instead, "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson.._You miss it._" Said person froze.

"_You miss it, don't you?..The war, the chaos?" _Marisol had said the same the day before..and it was true. He missed the danger, the adventure..whether he admitted it aloud or not.

The stranger leaned forward some, whispering. "Welcome back." He walked away then, leaving John to his thoughts. His cell phone beeped; another text. "..Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."

"I'm to take you home." Watson looked to find 'Anthea' behind him, still texting. Instead of replying, the new message was checked.

_Could be dangerous._

_SH_

Deep blue eyes peered at his left hand, studying it.

"Address?"

"Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street." John finally answered, "..But I need to stop off somewhere first."

* * *

**[Sherlock's Flat; 8:43pm]**

Marisol sat comfortably with her legs tucked under her in the old red arm chair at Sherlock's apartment, listening to music on her iPhone. The two had made it back, after doing some hands-on investigating, almost an hour ago after leaving the crime scene. Holmes had texted John three times earlier to come there and still had no reply. She was trying not to panic, thinking positive thoughts and keeping herself busy with her music. But her brown eyes would shift briefly over to the couch on the other side of the flat. The eccentric laid there with hands steeple under his chin, appearing asleep but was in fact thinking.

"What's the story between you and Anderson?" the young woman asked suddenly, believing he wouldn't hear nor respond.

"It's simple. Anderson is an idiot." the man replied with eyes still closed, "And he annoys me because of it."

She raised a brow, "How exactly does he annoy you?"

Sherlock ranted, "By being an attention hog, always butting in and failing to be intelligent since clearly he has an IQ lower than a squirrel."

"Touchy subject, huh?" Vallas tightly smiled.

"Why did you ask if you knew?" Holmes glanced at her then.

A shrug was given. "Just trying to make small talk, I guess. Heh, I'm not very good at it obviously."

"A common trait of the introverted." he stated matter-of-fact.

"..Yeah.." she murmured, glancing down and fiddling with her phone. Suddenly, Sherlock was standing and over by her before she could blink. His hands rested on the chair's arms, trapping the young woman, and his face leaned slightly in. Their abrupt closeness made her breath held and those piercing blue eyes of his kept her frozen to the spot.

"But the real you is trapped inside," he drawled, sounding oddly alluring. "Gradually clawing its' way out though you desperately keep pushing it back in."

"The-the real me?" she repeated, flabbergasted. "What are you on about? I'm—"

"—Lying to yourself. There's a fierceness to you. A liberated side that cares not what the world thinks from her words or actions."

Vallas strongly denied, "There is no such thing in me."

"You're not only here to look after Watson." the genius informed, "In the beginning, that was your obvious resolve but now, as the night drags on, you're becoming transfixed with what's occurring. The adventure, the risk, the mystery of the case—_you like it._" His curl dark haired head tilted in a curious fashion. "Your godfather too..For no blood relation, you two are oddly similar."

"You're hiding something too." the young woman countered coolly. The air was growing tense by the second and slowly becoming a need to out best each other. "You aren't the only one to read people well. I can see the madness behind all that smart of yours. You don't know how to switch off and the knowing of everything and needing to be right is making you and has caused it."

"A true introvert would want to be left alone in their world, not accepted by the billions in this reality. You're an extrovert but are afraid to reveal who you are because you believe even then you won't be. You're scared of being called a freak." She said nothing, glaring hotly at him. He slightly smirked; a soft spot had been struck.

The man simply moved away with a shrug, adding a finishing blow. "I don't understand why it matters. Even if you do, you'll still be _plain_ compared to most."

"_Shut your bleeding mouth!_" Marisol snapped venomously. Dark brown eyes widen and quickly turned away; filled with contrite. No further response was given, so he went and fiddled with his violin then. A taut silence filled the room for several minutes.

"..I can see why most people tell you to piss off."

"Pray tell." the eccentric told softly, plucking random strings.

The writer looked at him. "You speak only truth. People aren't ready for it..I wasn't." She glanced down, smirking humorlessly. "There's only three people I know that could easily read me—my father, my grandmother, and John."

Sherlock raised a brow. "And your point?"

"Now, I can say there's four." Marisol stated before meeting his gaze again with a glare. "But just because I did, doesn't mean I fully trust you to be in my inner circle." She looked away with a chagrined blush, muttering. "Though I have a feeling I'll have a decision by the end of all this."

"I look forward to your choice then, Ms. Vallas." Holmes smirked, having heard.

* * *

**[John(?)and Marisol's Flat; 9:15pm]**

The reason for John coming there was simple—to retrieve his handgun. He neither fired or touched it in months since returning to London. But from Sherlock's texts and the situation the three were all currently involved in, there was no telling how it might possibly end. So if it turned bad, Watson would be at least well prepared. So tucking it in the waistband of his pants behind his back, hidden thanks to his coat, he left to proceed to Baker Street.

* * *

**[221B Baker Street: 9:39pm]**

Arriving back at Baker Street, Watson unbuckled himself but he didn't get out right away.

"Listen, your boss," he said to 'Anthea,' "Any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

"Sure." she agreed kindly.

"You've told him already, haven't you?" the man deadpanned.

"Yeah." the texting woman admitted.

The doctor opened the door but paused, "Hey, um..do you ever get any free time?"

She chuckled, "Oh, yeah. Lots." A long pause filled the air afterwards until she looked at him. "_Bye._" John got the point and stepped out finally.

"_Smooth, Watson, Real smooth."_ he thought bitterly as the car drove away.

This was what John walked in and first saw: Sherlock was now found back on the couch with one sleeve rolled up to the elbow and his left arm bent at a right angle; hand clenched in a fist. He was pressing something on his skin. Clear blues opened as a slow exhale escaped him. Marisol, having changed her position in the arm chair, now sat upside down while playing _Words with Friends_.

He addressed Sherlock first. "What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch." The eccentric showed his arm, revealing three of them. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"It's good news for breathing." noted John.

"Oh, breathing! Breathing's boring." Holmes complained. Watson just then noticed something peculiar about his arm, moving closer to see.

"Is that..three patches?!"

"He said it's a three-patch problem when I asked." informed Marisol blankly, looking away from her game and smiling at her godfather. "Hi, John. Glad to see you made it back in one piece."

"And why are you upside down?" he questioned, bewildered.

"I suggested that she should hang upside down when playing her _Words for Friends_." stated Sherlock, closing eyes again as he steeple his hands under his chin. "Blood rushing to the head is a good way to assist in quick thinking because of the increased bioavailability of oxygen and glucose, the two most important metabolic substrates for the brain."

"Surprisingly, he was right. I'm on my third win." Watson looked from the other man to her, absolutely baffled. Again, it was unusual the swift understanding between the two misfits.

He peered at the contemplative Holmes. "..Well?" No response. "You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important."

The genius woke with a small jump, remembering. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" the doctor repeated.

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs." said Sherlock heedlessly, "I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

"I _was_ the other side of London." noted John with irritation, "And Marisol's right here with hers."

"There was no hurry." stated the other man, "And she refused incessantly of the use of hers for what I have planned." Watson stared at him blankly before just pulling out his phone.

"Here." Sherlock held out his right hand and the phone was dropped onto it. His hands were steeple and he was back in meditation mode again.

"So what's this about—the case?" the veteran queried, meaning the demand for his phone.

"Her case.." he was corrected.

"_Her_ case?"

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously." Holmes told, slightly snappy. "The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." the eccentric uttered to himself then addressed John, "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text." The cell was offered back.

"You've brought me here..to send a text." Watson said slowly.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Once his phone was taken, John hesitated, peering around the room briefly before going to the window.

"Something the matter?" asked the young woman slowly, moving wobbly to stand. All that blood rushing to her head made her off-balance.

"Just met a friend of yours, Sherlock." he replied, looking outside.

"A friend?" said man repeated, confused.

"An enemy." John rectified himself.

"Oh." Sherlock calmed down then. Enemies he was used to but friends were a whole different story. "Which one?"

The godfather and child peered at him, thinking for a moment. _"He has more than one?"_

"Well, your arch-enemy, according to him." Watson declared, "Do people have arch-enemies?"

The genius glanced where he stood, saying softly. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity, we could have split the fee." Holmes noted, disappointed. He then chastised, "Think it through next time."

"Who was he?" Vallas pondered with curiosity.

"The most dangerous man he's ever met and not my problem right now."

She muttered, rolling her dark eyes. "Oh, that's helpful and frightening.."

He narrowed his eyes at her before telling John again, "On my desk, the number!" The doctor went to the messy table, finding the tiny slip of paper at the end on top of a file folder. He read what was written.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was..Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

The other man was meditating once more. "Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number..Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah, hang on!" Watson snapped, not liking to be rushed and ordered around. He shook his head, finishing.

"These words exactly." the eccentric advised, "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.'"

The doctor stopped, "You blacked out?"

"What? No..No!" The genius rapidly got up, stepped on and over the coffee table, and headed into the kitchen. "Type and send it. Quickly." He came back with a small pink carry-on suitcase. "Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?"

"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" Grabbing a chair from his desk, he placed it in front of the leather arm chair and the case on top before taking a seat himself.

_What happened at Lauriston Gdns?_

_I must have blacked out_

_22 Northumberland St_

_Please come_

The text was finished and sent. The sound of a zipper made John glance over his shoulder. Sherlock had unzipped the case and stared thoughtfully at its' contents full of womanly items.

"That's.." he paused, "That's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock said. John just stared, making him sigh with botheration. "Oh, perhaps I should mention—_I _didn't kill her."

"I never said you did." Watson noted.

"Why not?" Holmes contradicted, "Given that text and the fact I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

Marisol questioned then, "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

He smirked before changing his position in the chair—now squatting. "Now and then, yes."

"..Okay.." the doctor said and went to sit in the unoccupied red chair across the eccentric. "How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens." the genius expressed, "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in a car. Nobody could be seen with this without drawing attention—particularly a man, which is statistically more likely."

"Yeah, it's said totaling all the serial killers around the world, the percentage is largely male." the young woman added from her spot by the desk, leaning against the edge with crossed arms. "There are females ones but their numbers are greatly low."

"How do you know this?!" exclaimed her godfather.

She easily replied, "Research. I did a paper on various serial killers for my Psychology class in secondary school."

"So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it." Sherlock continued, "Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. Marisol and I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took us less than ten minutes to find the right skip."

What he didn't go further into details with was that the two had gotten on top of a roof to another abandon building in the area for better viewing point first. Then went to every backstreet with that description and searched separately to cover more ground. Sherlock had been the one to find the case in a dumpster filled with black garage bags and other rubbish. Afterwards, they hurriedly came back to Baker Street.

"Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" inquired Watson.

"It had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot." the other man stated brusquely. John looked at him in offense. "No, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is."

"He said that same thing to me," reassured the young woman, waving a dismissive hand. "When I asked what we were looking for earlier and replied as you did."

"Yes, but you automatically slapped me when I did and before I could further explain." added Holmes in a dead tone.

Marisol flushed with embarrassment. "I said it was a reflex and apologized! Let it go, man!"

Clear blue eyes rolled and asked the veteran, "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case?" John said, "How could I?"

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone?" Sherlock stressed, "There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. That's her number there you just texted."

"Maybe she left it at home."

The eccentric sat normal then. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home."

"Er.." Watson paused, peering at his phone on the arm. "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it." reasoned the other man.

"Yes, or?" the genius pressed him.

"The murderer..You think the murderer has the phone?" the doctor answered accurately.

"Maybe she..left it when she left her case." he was told, "Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry..what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?" His phone rang then. He peered at the calling screen.

_(withheld)_

_calling_

The writer covered her mouth, shocked. "Oh, my god..he's really calling.."

"A few hours after his last victim," Sherlock said in a low tone, "And now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer.." The case was slapped shut then. "..would panic." He stood, grabbing his suit jacket before heading to the door.

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked him.

"Four people are dead, there isn't time to talk to the police."

"Then why are you talking to _us_?"

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull." Holmes replied, sounding like a child. His ever-present coat and scarf were retrieved next from a door hanger.

"So we're basically filling in for your skull?" Marisol scoffed.

"Relax, you're both doing fine." encouraged the eccentric, "Well?"

"Well, _what_?" queried Watson.

The genius suggested with a grimace. "Well..you could just sit there and..watch telly—"

The doctor interrupted. "You want us to come with you?"

"You, yes. Ms. Vallas is already onboard." It was true for the young woman already had her coat and satchel back on as well. "Plus, I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so.." He smirked and his two new acquaintances did the same, amused. "Problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

"What about her?"

"She said you get off on this, you enjoy it." he noted.

"And I said '_dangerous_', and here you are." the other man countered smoothly, leaving the room.

"He has a point." said his goddaughter, agreeing.

"And you're all for the dangerous lifestyle now?" the veteran questioned, narrowing his deep blue eyes. "Especially after you being protective and wanting nothing bad to happen of me."

She looked at him with a fierce seriousness. "It's what _you_ wanted. Needed, even. You're slowly becoming yourself again. Now, I'm still that and want you safe but to do so, I have to jump on the band wagon as well." A cocky grin formed on her pink lips. "Plus, who else is going to watch your six better than me?" They stared at each other for a moment.

"Damn it!" cursed John, hating to agree and follow along in this madness once more. He stood and the two hurried after Holmes.

**-TBC-**

* * *

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	5. Cab Chase

_**-Clever.**_

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently) for language, suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

**_-TV-based_**

_**-Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter Five:

_"Cab_ _Chase"_

**[Destination: Northumberland Street; 9:54pm]**

"Where are we going?" asked Watson as the trio walked the crowded streets of London's nightlife. Sherlock and John walked side by side while Marisol hanged in the back but stayed close enough to hear.

"Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here." Holmes replied.

Marisol questioned, "You think he's stupid enough to go there?"

"No, I think he's brilliant enough." noted the eccentric, thrilled. "I love the brilliant ones. They're all so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight." they were told dramatically at first before he calmed, "It's the frailty of genius, John and Marisol, it needs an audience."

"Yeah.." The two drawled together.

"This is his hunting ground. Right here in the heart of the city." Sherlock said, "Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

"Come on, think!" he shouted to himself suddenly, "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Don't know. Who?" John queried.

"Haven't the faintest." the other man said promptly, "Hungry?" They crossed the street then. Meanwhile, the young woman pondered over what he said until something black passed by in the street and the answer immediately came to her, blurting.

"A cab!" She snapped her lips shut, doe eyes big. The men paused in front of an Italian restaurant and turned. John raised a quizzical brow and Sherlock narrowed his eyes with curiosity.

"Details." the genius ordered firmly. Vallas gulped nervously. Too many eyes were on her and her mind was becoming frazzled. "Marisol." She looked to him again. He said softly that time. "Details, _please_." Her curly brown haired head nodded, more confident and having a need to prove herself.

"..Well, the murderer must use a cab because it's perfect and no ones suspects anything malicious. People share cabs with strangers all the time and never think twice about it." she suspected casually, "Now, how I think he does it—_he must wait in the crowd until finding the victim he wants and then follows them when they go into one. He probably then pretends to go wherever they do at first. I don't know how, but he has to get them alone some way. He could stalk the place until seeing them again and corners them, maybe._"

"Anyway, to sum it up with what we already know, _once the murderer's got them, he forces them into another cab, goes to a new location, and offs them there with the pills by making them take it themselves to look like a normal suicide._ So.." Her hands were stuffed into her coat pockets then, finishing. "..yeah, that's what I think." John grinned proudly and Sherlock, eyes having closed when listening. When they opened again, an entertained glint was visible in them.

"What a _nimble_ little girl—" Holmes remarked with a smirk. This introvert-aspire Greek Londoner had become progressively intriguing since their first meeting and he strangely kept wanting to know more and more.

"I prefer the term clever." the writer corrected with a shy smile, "Sounds better, heh."

"—but you're still _plain_." he deadpanned rudely. She frowned and went to retort harshly when..

"_ANSWER! ANSWER OR BE EXTERMINATED!" _Her mouth snapped shut and a bright blush tinted her cheeks as Holmes grinned at the noise coming from her hip. It was her personalized ringtone from her phone. With flustered movement, the young woman removed it to peer at the screen and sighed,

"I've got to take this. It's Montgomery, so I'll meet you two inside shortly." With a glare to Sherlock that clearly read 'swipe that grin off your face', she walked away down the sidewalk then, leaving the two. Watson looked at the other man with an unbelieving expression.

"What?" he snapped.

"You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?"

"Oh, I do, but I find no point in tiptoeing with them. And I'm only being rude to Marisol because she's good at bantering." He grinned to himself. "It's fun."

"I don't see how that's fun but, word of advice, she's already slapped you." warned John as he followed Holmes inside the restaurant. "Keep it up and you'll be on your knees, grabbing your lower parts."

"Dually noted." the eccentric drawled with indifferent. A waiter by the door noticed him and offered the table by the front window for the two.

"Thank you, Billy...22 Northumberland Street." stated Sherlock once seated, staring at the other side of the road. "Keep your eyes on it."

"He's not just going to ring the doorbell though, is he?" Watson responded, "He'd need to be mad."

"He _has_ killed four people."

"Okay.." A man with long hair pulled into a low ponytail and a full beard came to their table right then.

"Sherlock!" he greeted, shaking hands before giving them menus. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date."

"Do you want to eat?" the genius asked his acquaintance, seeming not bothered by what the man just said.

The doctor, however, blinked and speedily denied, "I'm not his date." He was unfortunately ignored.

"This man got me off a murder charge." the ponytail man informed.

"This is Angelo." Holmes at last introduced; all the while staring outside. "Three years ago, I proved to Lestrade, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name."

"I cleared it _a bit_. Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing." Angelo answered before saying, "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison." pointed the genius.

"I'll get a candle for the table." the former criminal told, stepping away. "It's more romantic."

"I'm not his date!" stressed the veteran on deaf ears. It was then he noticed his goddaughter standing by the door, having just joined them.

"Your sexuality being misconstrued again, John?" she asked casually, though wanting nothing more than to laugh aloud. Before he could reply, as promised, Angelo returned to put a small candle on their table. He gave the doctor a thumbs-up and left again.

"Thanks.." sighed John while the young woman chuckled and sat with them.

"You may as well eat." Sherlock suggested to both, placing his menu in front of her. "We might have a long wait."

"My, you're being nice. Is this your way of apologizing?" Marisol inquired, sarcastic.

Clear blues briefly glanced her way. "..Perhaps."

"I doubt that." she rejected flatly, observing the menu. "I know you're just messing with me. Getting under my skin to bring out the 'real' me."

"Sorry, what?" Watson said, having no idea what they were going on about.

"I already have." the eccentric declared, looking at her fully. "I've done so since the cab ride to Brixton. Slowly but surely." He peered back at the road. "I was tired of waiting for you to realize."

Brown eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Why were you so adamant on doing such a thing?"

"Because I can't stand people who lie to themselves."

"..You're going to regret that." the writer then smirked, "Sooner or later, Holmes."

"Dually noted, Ms. Vallas." he said, using the same line as to John. Said person just looked back and forth from the two before letting it go, not bothering to understand anymore.

* * *

**[Angelo's Restaurant; 10:15pm]**

"People don't have arch-enemies." the doctor told firmly.

"I'm sorry?" the genius said, having not heard. Their stakeout had lasted for thirteen minutes now and so far all that occurred during it was Marisol and John receiving their food.

"In real life." John informed, "There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?"

"What do real people have, then, in their..'real lives'?" queried of the other man.

"Friends?" Vallas replied with a shrug, "People they know, people they like, people they don't like..Girlfriends, boyfriends, that whole gist."

"Yes, well, as I was saying, dull." drawled Sherlock.

The veteran looked at him. "You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Mm..Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine." Holmes retorted while meeting his gaze, sounding a tad defensive.

"So you've got a boyfriend, then." summed Watson.

"No." he quickly denied. The young woman silently looked between the two and raised a brow.

"Right. Okay." John chuckled humorlessly. "You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good." Silence filled the air then for a few moment. Sherlock replayed that whole conversation again in his head before saying,

"John, um..I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any—" Marisol almost choked on her water at his declaration while John adamantly shook his head.

"No, I'm..not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine."

The eccentric stared at him for a second, nodding. "Good..Thank you."

"Goodness.." sighed the writer, "That was all a strange bit of deja vu."

"How so?" Holmes wondered; clear blue eyes back to the street.

"Oh god.." groaned the older man.

"The other day, I told John I had a date early that morning. He asked if it was with a boy and I teasingly replied, it wasn't." She laughed; it sounded honeyed. "He then started rambling like just now how it was fine and everything."

"And was it?"

"What was?"

The younger man peered at her; gaze intently solemn. "Was it a date?"

"A study one, that is. With a girl in one of my classes. I'm not really into girls." Vallas answered. She bashfully looked down and poked at a noddle with her fork. "Plus, I don't date much anyway..though I have had plenty of offers before.."

"So you have a fear of commitment." noted Sherlock simply.

"No." She rolled her eyes, hating how he just assumed. "Most of the ones that have asked me out are either not what I'm looking for or complete jerks. So I've just decided to stop dating and wait til I meet the right guy someday. But if it doesn't happen, so be it. I'll just live alone, I guess." He stared for a few moment with a thoughtful expression. Before she could ask why, he faced the window once more.

"..Look across the street. Taxi. It's stopped." the genius then informed his acquaintances. They looked and sure enough one was just parked with a man alone in the backseat. "Nobody getting in and nobody getting out. Seems you were right, Ms. Vallas. Oh, that is clever."

"That's him." John said, surprised.

"Don't stare." the other man scolded them.

"_You're_ staring." the two proclaimed.

"We can't all stare." Sherlock stood then, hurrying out the building. The writer and doctor scrambled after him, forgetting their unfinished food..and certain walking cane as well.

* * *

Outside, Sherlock stood on the sidewalk, staring at the vehicle still there. The stranger waiting inside happen to look back, right at him, before turning away. A second later, the taxi at last left. The genius wasted no time, focused only on the departing cab. He ran forward just as his new acquaintances came out and was almost hit by car. It managed to break just in time, allowing him to just slide across the hood and continue running.

"Sorry!" Watson apologized as he and Marisol rushed pass. Holmes had stopped, unable to stop the cab in time.

"I've got the cab number." the other man told him as the two came over.

"Good for you." the genius said before mentally picturing a map of the Soho area and rambling off. "Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic light, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." He looked over at an apartment building just as a tenant was going in. There was his alternative route. Off he was running again, heading towards that person and pushing them out of the way to go inside.

"Oi!" the person shouted angrily.

"So sorry!" Vallas said in a rush as she and Watson went after the eccentric once more. Taking the stairs rapidly all the way to the roof, the trio managed to keep together as they leapt over obstacles here and there and weaved in and out. It was like a game of follow the leader, only fast-paced and full of dangerous elements such as..jumping from rooftops. Sherlock made it to the other side without fault. Marisol ran a little faster before leaping across the gap and landing on the other side with a bit of a stumble. John, on the other hand, skidded to a halt just as he saw the edge.

"Come on, John. We're losing him!" yelled Sherlock while still running. His goddaughter frantically gestured for him to hurry. Gaining resolve, the veteran took the plunge and did so perfectly. The group then proceeded down a fire escape and into an alley. Weaving through a few more, they would reach _D'Abblay_ _Street_ where the cab was currently turning on. Unfortunately, just as the trio arrived at the end of the alley heading out to that street, the taxi drove by.

"This way!" Holmes informed, turning right. The writer was right behind him but the doctor accidentally went the opposite. "No, _this_ way!"

"John!" exasperated the young woman.

"Sorry.." he told; in the correct direction now. The new plan was to cut the vehicle off somewhere on _Wardour_ _Street_, so they sped down _D'Abblay_, turned left on _Berwick_ while crossing through _Noel_ before taking another back alley shortcut. This time it worked—all of them coming right when the cab was just about to pass again. The genius jumped in front of taxi, making it stop.

"Police! Open her up." he demanded breathlessly, flashing what looked to be a police badge before heading to the back door. Upon opening it, he came face to face with..an American tourist.

"No.." The eccentric briefly looked away and gritted his teeth with frustration. His acquaintances appeared at his side, peeking inside curiously but tiredly. "Teeth, tan. What, Californian?" He peered down. "LA, Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"How could..you possibly..know that?" asked Marisol wearily, trying still to catch her breath.

"The luggage." There was an _LAX_ tag on it. Sherlock looked at the man again. "First trip to London, right? Going by your final destination, the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" the tourist questioned, glancing at all three.

"Yeah." Holmes showed him the badge for a second. "Everything all right?"

The stranger smirked slightly, "Yeah."

"..Welcome to London." told the genius with faux kindness before walking away.

Watson quickly popped his head in then. "Er, any problems, just let us know." Vallas wiggled her fingers goodbye with a coy smile and shut the door.

"Basically just a cab that happen to slow down." John noted when he joined Sherlock a few feet away.

"Basically." the other man said flatly.

"Not the murderer unfortunately." huffed Vallas, moving some stray hairs from her face.

"Not the murderer, no." Sherlock agreed, annoyed.

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go."

"Hey, where did you get this?" The doctor took the badge and observed the inside. "..Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah, I pickpocket him when he's annoying." stated the eccentric, "You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat." John began laughing then, earning a puzzled look from the other man. "What?"

"Nothing, just..'Welcome to London.'" smiled Watson. Holmes snickered lightly.

"Um, fellas.." the young woman said suddenly, glancing back in the direction of the cab. A real police officer was currently speaking with the American tourist who pointed at the three that were standing still a ways down.

"Got your breath back?" the genius inquired them.

"Ready when you are." the veteran replied.

"Roger that." answered the writer. They took off running again.

**-TBC-**

* * *

**_Fun Fact: Marisol's ringtone is my actual one since I'm a big Doctor Who fan. I have a friend (also a fan) who does a spot on impression of a dalek. He let me record him saying that and I've been using it for a year now. Yeah, it just never gets old hahaha._**

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	6. Password: Rachel

_Ohmysherlock, you guys! The support for this story is amazing and going strong each day! Seriously, I can't say it enough but I love you all. Keep bringing in the love and you'll be handsomely rewarded as always. ;D ~**Lovely**_

_**-Clever.**_

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently) for language, suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

**_-TV-based_**

_**-Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter Six:

_"Password: Rachel"_

**[Returned to 221B Baker Street; 10:36pm]**

Out of breath, the unlikely trio arrived once again at their base of operation. They all removed their winter outer-clothing, overheated from their running, and placed them in various spots in the foyer before all leaning against the same wall tiredly.

"That was the most ridiculous thing..I've ever done." panted John.

"And _you_ invaded Afghanistan." jested Sherlock. They burst out laughing; high on adrenaline still.

"That wasn't just me." Watson smirked, "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?"

"Oh, just passing the time." the genius said dismissively. "And proving a point."

"What point?" the god parent and child questioned, curious.

"You." Holmes replied, meaning John. He then shouted, "Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson _will_ take the room upstairs."

The doctor raised a brow. "Says who?"

"Says the man at the door." A rapping knock came right then. John glanced at the eccentric before going to answer the door, leaving Marisol and Sherlock alone.

"You know, as much as I hate to admit it, that was surprisingly fun." smiled Marisol faintly, "The best I've had in a long time, to be honest, haha."

"Never a dull moment when with me." he said, closing his eyes and still trying to regain his breath.

The young woman started laughing again. "Oh, how absolutely right you are."

The man smirked down at her. "Warming up now, Ms. Vallas?"

She turned towards him with a coy one. "A little bit, Mr. Holmes. A little bit." At the door, the knocking had came from Angelo, the owner of the restaurant they had been in.

"Sherlock texted me." he informed the veteran, "He said you forgot this." His walking cane was offered to him. Blue eyes widen as he took it back, having just remember that he did. But with all the excitement, he completely forgot about it and his so-called disability. He glanced back, finding his goddaughter looking with a shocked but happy expression while the genius just smiled. Sherlock, once again, had said another thing right about him—his limp was indeed psychosomatic.

"Er, thank you. Thank you." John told Angelo politely before returning inside.

Mrs. Hudson came into the foyer now, crying. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Mrs. Hudson?" he queried, taken back.

"Upstairs." was all she told. The acquaintances glanced at each other before hurrying to his room. Lestrade was there along with several officers whom were searching the place from top to bottom.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked angrily, approaching the Inspector who was currently lounging in the leather arm chair. His acquaintances stayed by the door.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid." the man informed.

"You can't just break into my flat." the genius told.

"You can't withhold evidence—and I didn't break into your flat." countered Lestrade.

Holmes gestured around them. "What do you call this, then?"

"It's a drugs bust."

"Seriously?" John interrupted with disbelief, "This guy—a junkie? Have you met him?"

Said person came over by him. "John—"

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day," he continued adamantly, "You wouldn't find anything you could call recreational." Marisol came over to him, touching his arm. She obviously figured out the truth before he had.

"I think he's got the point.."

"Yes, John, you probably want to shut up now." said Sherlock firmly.

"Yeah, but come on.." He looked at the other man, seeing the seriousness in his face. "No.."

"What?"

"You?"

"Shut up!" Holmes told him harshly then said to Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog." the Inspector corrected, glancing in the kitchen. The trio looked as well. Though it shouldn't have been surprising given the two's history, Sherlock's least favorite person was there among the search party. Said man waved mockingly at them.

"Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered." he told with a sneer.

"They all did." declared Lestrade, "They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're very keen."

"I'm sorry, but you are talking about people, _not_ dogs." Vallas noted snarkily, crossing her arms.

"Are these human eyes?" Donovan appeared from inside the kitchen, holding a jar of said items.

"I take what I said back a bit." uttered the young woman with a grimace.

"Put those back!" Sherlock ordered.

"They were in the microwave." the sergeant added with disgust.

"It's an experiment." the eccentric stressed, beginning to pace like a caged tiger. His annoyance was growing increasingly and his patience waning by the second.

"Keep looking, guys." Lestrade told the others before addressing Sherlock. "Or you could help us properly, and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish." Holmes muttered as he passed by him.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child." he stated, standing. "Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

"So what? You set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if we find anything."

"I am clean!" the genius exclaimed firmly.

"Is your flat?" was inquired of him, "All of it?"

He rolled up one of his sleeves, revealing a nicotine patch. "I don't even smoke."

"Neither do I." Lestrade said, showing him his own matching one. Sherlock looked away with an irritated sigh. "So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?" the other man questioned, looking back at him.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that, we found the case." Anderson interjected, "According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Sherlock corrected smoothly.

"He's not the murderer. Sherlock and I went searching for it after leaving the crime scene." Marisol defended then, "We found the case abandoned in a dumpster not too far from the place."

"Then that just makes you an accomplice." the other man sneered at her.

She rolled her brown eyes. "My god, Sherlock is right. You are an idiot."

"Hey—"

"Anderson, shut up now." the genius ordered before addressing the Inspector quickly, "You need to bring Rachel in to question her. _I_ need to question her."

"She's dead." the Inspector calmly declared. The young woman and Watson gave quizzical looks at the new information.

"Excellent. How, when and why?" the eccentric asked excitedly, "Is there a connection? There has to be."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive." Lestrade explained further. "Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

"Oh, that's.." Sherlock trailed off for a moment, thinking. "..That's not right. How..Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Philip queried blankly, "Yep—sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

Holmes glanced at him, stating firmly. "She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, _it would have hurt._"

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves," Watson noted, "That he _makes_ them take it. Well, maybe he..I don't know, talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"Yeah, but that was ages ago." dismissed the eccentric, "Why would she still be upset?" The others were quiet, a bit disbelieving he said such a thing. He looked at their faces, realizing his insensitive remark and becoming a tad embarrassed.

"Not good?" he asked his acquaintances.

"Bit not good, yeah." the writer told with a nod.

"If you were dying, if you'd been murdered," Sherlock confronted John, "In your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

"'_Please, God, let me live._'" John answered.

"Use your imagination!" the other man stressed.

The doctor looked at him head-on with a firm expression. "I don't have to."

Sherlock explained more calmly that time, "Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers—she _was_ clever. She's trying to tell us something." He began pacing the room once more.

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson now stood in the doorway. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away." he shooed.

She looked around the flat. "Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson." the veteran informed the old woman.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers—"

Brown eyes widen with realization and Vallas spoke then, trying to get his attention. "Sherlock?"

"Shut up, everybody! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe." Holmes yelled suddenly, startling everyone to a silence. "I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

Said person gave him a confused expression. "What? My face is?"

"Everyone quiet and still." Lestrade then demanded, "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"Your back, now, please!" Anderson unfortunately complied.

"Come on, think. Quick!" the genius muttered to himself.

"What about your taxi?" his landlady questioned.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted at her, frightening the poor woman that she scurried off.

"Sherlock!" The young woman came in front of him suddenly and reached up, grabbing his face to make him look at her and only her. The man thought with astonishment that her hands were enjoyably soft and cool. They cupped his face just right that he had to admit he didn't want them to be remove which was greatly unlike him since he never really cared for intimate physical contact. His clear blues glanced down at the shorter person then, really seeing her for the first time. She was looking up at him with those expressive eyes. It was her—the real Marisol Vallas, the one that was no longer afraid of what people thought about her or her actions. Even now, she didn't pay attention to the people in the room looking at them with surprise because of their current position. Only they knew the truth and that was all that mattered.

"_Jennifer was trying to expose her killer._" she quietly informed him, letting him go once it was said. "You said yourself she was clever. That would be a way to do it."

"Oh.." he pondered on what she told, quickly figuring it all out. A grin formed on his face. "Ah! She was clever. Clever, yes!"

Sherlock addressed the others, excluding the writer. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked curiously.

The genius peered at him perplexedly. "What do you mean, how?"

"Rachel. 'Rachel' is the key!" Vallas stated excitedly, enjoying greatly that she understood at last what was going on.

"Yes!" Holmes pointed at her, thrilled. The rest just gave puzzled expressions. "Don't you see? Rachel! Oh.." He chuckled lightly. "Look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" Watson inquired of him, annoyed by him dragging the answer out..

"Watson, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address." He sighed, leaning forward in his seat to read it from the case beside him while the other man took a seat in front of his laptop. The doctor read slowly aloud for him then.

"_She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone._" the eccentric uttered as he typed in the user name. "_So it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The user name is her e-mail address, and all together now, the password is—_"

"Rachel." John said, understanding now. He, Lestrade, and Marisol gathered around Sherlock then to see the screen.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson noted boringly.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street." Sherlock insulted blandly before explaining, "We can do much more than that. _It's a smartphone, it's got GPS. Which means if you lose it, you can locate it online._ She's leading us to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it." pointed out the Inspector.

The doctor simply reassured him, "We know he didn't."

"Come on, come on. Quickly!" the genius muttered with impatience as the locator slowly loaded.

"Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver—" Mrs. Hudson stressed again, returning to the doorway.

He stood and walked towards her. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He headed to the kitchen with the head officer. John took his place at the computer, waiting. The old woman stayed where she was, nervously unsure.

"Get vehicles, get a helicopter. This phone battery won't last forever." advised Holmes to Lestrade.

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name."

"Sherlock.." called John, reading the map on the computer with shock. But he wasn't heard as the other man rambled on.

"Narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead we've had."

"Sherlock.." his name was called again, being heard that time. Said person quickly came to his side.

"Where is it? Quickly, where?" he asked before peering at the locator.

"Here. It's..in 221 Baker Street."

"How can it be here? How?" Sherlock wondered, momentarily at a loss.

The Inspector noted, "Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere."

"And what? I didn't notice it? Me? _I_ didn't notice..?" As they rambled on, Marisol went over to Mrs. Hudson who was still standing at the door. But paused halfway when seeing someone coming up the stairs behind the old woman, staring at the stranger with suspicion.

"Anyway, we texted him, and he called back." Watson stated.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim." Lestrade informed his crew, not believing what John said. Sherlock grew quiet, thinking.

—_Who do we trust, even if we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_

"_Well, the murderer must use a cab because it's perfect and no ones suspects anything malicious. People share cabs with strangers all the time and never think twice about it."_

Meanwhile, the young woman watched the stranger stop at the top of the stairs; their face covered in shadows. They then reached into their jacket pocket and removed..a _pink_ rubber case iPhone. Her dark eyes widen with fear and surprise. Her assumption earlier had been close but not close enough. A text message alert sounded behind her and she turned, discovering it came from Sherlock's phone. He pulled out his, reading the text from Jennifer Wilson's number:

_Come with me_

He knew who it was now. Sherlock looked to Marisol and then the doorway. When the young woman looked back, the murderer was leaving.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" the veteran asked him.

"What..? Yeah, yeah..I'm fine." he reassured him softly.

"So, how can the phone be here?"

"Don't know."

John stood, getting his cell. "I'll try it again."

"Good idea." The genius walked away then, heading towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Fresh air, just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long." he told blankly while brushing passed Vallas who looked at him knowingly.

"Are you sure you're all right?" John asked again, looking at him peculiarly.

"I'm fine." he was told as the other man hurried down the stairs. Watson shrugged and continued with what he was doing..Though his goddaughter had other ideas.

"John, I'll be right back." she told him before rushing after the eccentric. When she arrived in the foyer, Holmes was heading for the door.

"Hey!"

He faced her with an annoyed expression. "Marisol, not now. I need to—"

"Yeah, I know, though I think it's reckless and stupid." she interrupted briskly, going to stand by him. "I'm not going to stop or beg to join you. But this man has killed four people, so.." Digging around in her satchel, the young woman removed a black _Beretta M9_—her father's old Army gun. "Here, take this just in case." He stared at it with a raised brow. "For protection, okay?"

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock questioned, studying her.

"Because.." Her voice trailed off, glancing away with a faint blush. "..You're a good man. Eccentric, but good. London would be lost without that mind of yours."

A smirk slowly crawled on his lips. "Was that a compliment, Ms. Vallas?"

The young woman sniffed once, tucking some hair. "I suppose it was."

"Heh. Thank you, but no." he declined, gently pushing the weapon away. "I can handle this myself. Appreciate the offer though."

"Fine." Marisol shrugged and concealed the gun again. She then stuck out her hand. The genius understood what she was doing. She was finally accepting a friendship with him. He took hers in his and gave a firm shake. "I trust you, Sherlock." With that, the writer walked back upstairs. He looked down at his hand for a moment before clenching it and suddenly filled with pure resolute.

* * *

**[Outside 221B Baker Street; 10:52pm]**

Standing in front of a taxi at the curb was an average, not very pleasing to the eye, older man when Sherlock stepped out into the night air again.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes." he said calmly.

"I didn't order a taxi."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one."

"You're the cabbie." noted the genius, "The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you. Not your passenger."

"See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie." the murderer stated, "It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

"Is this a confession?" Sherlock wondered, glancing up at the windows to his apartment briefly. He spied Marisol subtly watching the exchange.

"Oh, yeah." the man replied, "I'll tell you what else—if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet, and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"Cos you're not going to do that?"

An inquisitive brow lifted. "Am I not?"

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes." he declared, "I spoke to 'em..and they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now, I'll promise you one thing..I will never tell you what I said." He walked away, going to return behind the wheel. John had hit the killer's ways right on the head. It was nice that the godparent and daughter had their moments of clarity, Sherlock enjoyably admitted to himself. He managed to pick suitable companions at last.

"No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result." Holmes pointed out to him.

"And you won't understand how those people died." rebuked to his statement, "What kind of result do you care about?" The genius thought for a moment before stepping towards the taxi.

"If I wanted to understand.." he said through the open window to the cabbie. "..What would I do?"

"Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too?"

"I don't want to kill you, Mr. Holmes." the older man rectified ominously, "I'm going to talk to you..and then you're going to kill yourself." Sherlock knew he was being baited like a cat with string for the truth. He always referred himself as one and like the saying, 'Curiosity killed the cat', he just might end up an example of the phrase. With one more look towards the window, Vallas nodded with a reassuring smile.

"_I trust you, Sherlock."_ repeated in his head. The genius never had someone purely trust him and he wasn't going to break that belief. So, he stepped into the car and drove off with the murderous cabbie with complete calm and a solid plan. John came over by the window then, still trying to call Jennifer's phone. He saw too that Sherlock had left.

"He just got in a cab.." He looked to Lestrade. "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

"I told you, he does that." Donovan reminded before speaking to her superior. "He bloody left again. We're wasting our time!"

"I'm..calling the phone, it's ringing out." The doctor joined the officers while his goddaughter remained silent. The young woman's phone suddenly beeped. On the screen was a single reassuring message:

_Got a plan_

_SH_

"_Sherlock, I really hope you're right."_ the writer thought with anxiousness, biting her bottom lip as the whole situation didn't settle on her stomach well at all.

**_"Trust lies at the core of love; there can be no true love without trust."_~M.K. Soni**

**-TBC-**

* * *

_** Heh, I have to say this is my second favorite couple of mine that I ship deeply from the bottom of my heart. I'm always tempted to just put these two together already, but love like theirs is meant to slowly build. **_

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	7. A Steady Hand

_**-Clever.**_

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently) for language, suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

**_-TV-based_**

_**-Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter Seven:

_"A Steady Hand"_

**[In a Taxi Heading Somewhere Unbeknown; 10:55pm]**

The ride to the location only the cabbie knew was silent expect for the shrill ringing of Jennifer Wilson's phone. Sherlock discreetly sent a text to Marisol.

_Got a plan_

_SH_

A several seconds later, a reply came:

_Wish you accepted my gun now? ;)_

His lips twitched, holding back a smirk.

* * *

**[Sherlock's Flat; 10:55pm]**

"And if it's ringing, it's not here." Lestrade noted.

John went to the laptop. "I'll try the search again."

"Does it matter? Does any of it?" ranted Sally to Lestrade, "He's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down. And you're wasting your time. All our time."

"He is not a lunatic. Sherlock's the only one really trying to end this." Vallas snapped, becoming sick and tired of hearing her complaining. But her outburst was for another reason also..one she hoped would work to her advantage.

"You don't even really know him, so don't bother defending the freak." the other woman told blandly. Marisol stomped over to her then; her dark eyes narrowed with anger.

"Either do you but I know enough to understand that he's adamant when it comes to a case. He wouldn't leave it unfinished. So unless you've got any other bright ideas, I suggest you shut it before you stick your foot even further in your mouth." A condescending sneer formed on her pink lips. "Or something else for that matter, which I'm sure Anderson would love to volunteer for also." Sally's eyes flared and she rushed towards the snarky younger woman who just stood there with her hands on her hips in a sassy pose.

"That's it! I've had it—"

"Enough! The both of you!" Lestrade got in between them to stop a possible fistfight. He looked at Sally. "Donovan, go cool off." Then Vallas, pointing a warning finger at her. "And you, another outburst like that and you'll be in cuffs down in my police car. Got it?" The women nodded, backing off with mumbling remarks but not without one last vicious glare at each other. The Inspector tiredly rubbed his temples before announcing with a wry tone.

"Okay, everybody..done here."

* * *

**[Taxi: close to location; 10:59pm]**

"..How did you find me?"

"Oh, I recognized you. Soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!" the cabbie answered, pausing for a moment. "I was warned about you." Sherlock gave a curious expression to that, peeking his interest. "I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it."

"Who warned you about me?" he questioned smoothly.

"Just somebody out there who'd noticed."

"Who?" The genius leaned forward a bit, spying a torn picture taped to the dashboard. "Who would notice me?"

The man smiled. "You're too modest, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm really not." he was corrected quickly.

"Got yourself a fan."

Holmes leaned back, casually saying, "Tell me more."

"That's all you're going to know." the killer stated, menacingly adding. "..In _this_ lifetime."

* * *

**[Sherlock's Flat; 10:59pm]**

The Inspector looked to the genius' acquaintances as he put on his coat. The other officers were all gone from the apartment and outside now. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

John shrugged and glanced briefly at his goddaughter with a teasing glint in his eyes. "You know him better than I do." She blushed with a frown, holding back from elbowing him.

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." Lestrade replied, not noting the double meaning.

"So why do you put up with him?" questioned Marisol curiously.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why." He headed for the door, peering back at them. "And, like you said, because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." He then left, leaving the two alone. The young woman wasted no time and rushed to Sherlock's laptop.

"Finally! He's gone!"

"What are you doing?" John asked her, stepping over. "The police are taking care of this now, we don't need to continue helping."

"That may be true," she said securely, not taking her eyes off the screen. "But I'm not stopping." He sighed and grabbed his cane from where he left it on the table.

"Well, I'm going home. This has been enough excitement for me in one night." Walking away then, a beeping came from the computer—the locator had found the phone again.

A bit of relief washed over the writer. "There you are, you sociopath.." She snapped the laptop shut and took it with her, speeding out of the room. "Forget going home, John! Sherlock needs our help!"

"W-What?!" he blinked before going after her.

* * *

**[Taxi: Upon Arrived Destination; 11:04pm]**

The cabbie stopped outside two old building that seemed to be used a school of some sort before stepping out and opening the backseat door.

"Where are we?" asked Sherlock firmly.

"You know every street in London." the older man remarked, knowing Sherlock very well. "You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

"It's open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie—you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" A gun was pointed at him then and he sighed with disappointment. "Oh..Dull."

"Don't worry. It gets better." the killer reassured.

Holmes glared at him. "You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."

"I don't. It's much better than that." he said, placing the weapon away. "Don't need this with you. Cos you'll follow me." He turned to stroll inside one of the buildings. The genius stayed where he was for a second before with gritted teeth, hurried after the murder, hating how well he was being read and his unhinged curiosity. Upon following, he was lead to a computer study hall.

"Well, what do you think?" the cabbie wondered as he peered around. "It's up to you. You're the one who's going to die here."

"No, I'm not." Sherlock said with certainty.

"That's what they all say." the other man stated while he sat down at one of the tables in the room. "Shall we talk?" The genius did the same, saying once seated.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson and Marisol Vallas will remember you."

"You call that a risk? Nah..This..is a risk." A vial with the suicide pill was placed in the center of the table between the men. The eccentric eyed it inquisitively. "Oh, I like this bit. Cos you don't get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.." A second one was put alongside its' identical. "Weren't expecting that, were ya?" He said nothing, making the man grin. "Oh, you're gonna love this."

"Love what?" he deadpanned.

"Sherlock Holmes..look at you! Here in the flesh." commented the cabbie cockily, "That website of yours, your fan told me about it."

"_My fan?_"

"You are brilliant. You are a proper genius. _The Science Of Deduction_. Now, that..is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

"Oh, I see.." drawled Holmes sardonically, "So you're a proper genius too."

"Don't look it, do I?" the older man noted, "Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you _ever_ know."

"Okay, two bottles. Explain."

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle." he was informed, "You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. You take the pill from the bad bottle..you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical."

"In every way."

"And you know which is which."

"Of course_ I _know."

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew—you're the one who chooses." The cabbie stated.

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on." Sherlock pondered with indifference, "What's in it for me?"

"I haven't told you the best bit yet." the killer announced smoothly, "What bottle _you_ choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together..we take our medicine." Sherlock smirked, amused now. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes?"

"This what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice." he said aloud, processing this new information.

The other man nodded, disturbingly relishing the tense moment. "And now I'm giving _you _one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game"

Clear blues narrowed. "It's not a game, it's chance."

"I've played four times. I'm alive." the murderer smugly declared, "It's not chance, Mr. Holmes—it's chess. It's a game of chess with one move..and one survivor. And this.._this_..is the move." He then pushed one of the bottles towards him. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.."

* * *

**[Cab ride to Roland-Kerr Further Education College; 11:09pm]**

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade—I need to speak to him." John stressed to the other person on the line. "It's important. It's an emergency."

"Left here, please." Vallas pointed as she instructed the driver where to go. The small computer sat in her lap with the mephone locator page still open. The impending seconds were ticking and they hoped to make it there in time before it was too later for their new friend.

* * *

**[Study Hall at Roland-Kerr Further Education College; 11:14pm]**

"You ready yet, Mr. Holmes? Ready to play?"

"Play what?" he questioned in a flat tone. "It's a 50/50 chance."

"You're not playing the numbers—you're playing _me_." told harshly the killer. He tilted forward some. "Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?"

"It's still just chance."

"Four people, in a row? It's not chance."

"Luck." stated the eccentric heatedly.

"It's genius!" he was corrected, "I know how people think." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know how people think_ I_ think. I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you. Or maybe God just loves me." Holmes leaned on the table then with his hands wrapped business-like in front of him.

"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie." he insulted coolly.

"So, he's still here?" Marisol and John now stood in front of the two buildings, peering at both.

"Yep. That's the taxi right there."

"Too bad the locator won't tell us exactly which one they're in." noted the doctor with a sigh. "It's never easy in these situation."

The young woman glanced at him, smirking. "Good thing there's _two_ of us."

"So.." Sherlock paused. "You risked your life four times just to kill strangers—why?"

"Time to play." replied the older man instead.

"Oh, I _am_ playing. This is my turn." he informed before assessing him, "There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own—there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother's been cut out. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. _Estranged father_." The cabbie just sat there listening, glancing off the side somewhere.

"She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts. Ah, but there's more." He pointed at the other man. "Your clothes. Recently laundered, but everything you're wearing is at least..three years old? Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?" Clears blues stared before an understanding filled them:

_Dying_

"Ah..three years ago. Is that when they told you?"

"Told me what?" the murder at last spoke.

"That you're a dead man walking." Holmes said impassively.

"So are you." the cabbie told; he was becoming agitated and defensive.

The genius finished, uttering. "You don't have long, though. Am I right?"

"..Aneurism. Right in 'ere." He pointed to the top and right side of his head. The eccentric smirked triumphantly. "Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

"I've outlived four people." corrected the killer, "That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism."

"No..No, there's something else." Holmes noted, "You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow, this is about your children."

The other man sighed, licking his dry lips nervously. "Oh..you_ are_ good, in't ya?"

"But how?"

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Or serial killing."

"You'd be surprised."

"_Surprise me_." the genius challenged him.

"I have a sponsor." he revealed in a whisper. This information was indeed a plot twist that the other had believed would be true.

Sherlock raised a brow. "You have a what?"

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill..the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Who's sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock whispered in disbelief.

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" the murderer countered. Said person's brows furrowed slightly. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's other out there just like you, except you're just a man. And they're so much more than that.

"What do you mean..more than a man? An organization..what?"

"There's a name that no one says. And I'm not going to say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose." The eccentric peered down at the bottles then.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John ran from door to door, trying all to see if any of them would open while shouting out his name. The same was being done by his goddaughter.

His phone rang. "..Find him?!"

"No, you?"

"Nope. I'm heading to the second floor now."

"Okay, me too. Call me if you do."

"Sure thing!"

* * *

"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here."

The gun was put on him again. "You can take a 50/50 chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

"I'll have the gun, please." Sherlock requested, straight-faced.

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely." he smiled, "The gun."

"You don't want to phone a friend?" jested the killer.

"The gun." Holmes emphasized with that easy smile of his. The trigger was pulled and a small flame came out. "I know a real gun when I see one."

"None of the others did." the older man stated smoothly, putting the lighter away.

"Clearly." the eccentric said mockingly, "Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." He stood and proceeded to leave.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out?" was asked of him suddenly. He stopped just before exiting through the door. "Which one's the good bottle?"

"Course. Child's play."

"Well, which one, then?" the cabbie questioned, slowly reeling him back in. "Which one would you have picked? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you. Come on! Play the game." Sherlock strolled over once more to the table. The bottle in front of the killer was picked. Said person took the other, removing and observing the poisoned pill.

"Oh..Interesting. So what do you think? Shall we?" The genius stayed silent, rolling the vial thoughtfully in his hand. "Really..what do you think? Can you beat me?" The older man got up to stand across the other, taunting him still with his words. "Are you clever enough..to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you. So clever." The curiosity..the need to know if he was right..was killing him. Holmes emptied the bottle then, giving in to his demented game. He raised the pill to the light to better see the contents.

The murderer prattled on. "But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict. But this..this is what you're really addicted to. You'll do anything..anything at all, to stop being bored." His words were like the puppeteer pulling the strings of his puppet, making it unwilling do what he wished. "You're not bored now, are ya? Isn't it good?" The poison moved gradually to Sherlock's lips; the cabbie mocking his movements, until a gunshot rang out and struck the killer, not instantly but close enough to the heart to kill slowly. The eccentric dropped the pill, returning to his senses. Spinning around on his heel, he discovered the shot had came through the window behind him. Upon a closer look, across to the other building, a window opposite of that one was opened but the shooter was nowhere to be visibly seen in the room. A wheezing gasp made him returned to the now-dying cabbie.

Picking up his dropped pill, he eagerly asked the man, "Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?!" No answer. He tossed the pill angrily at him.

"Okay..tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan. I want a name."

"No.." the killer rasped.

"You're dying, but there's till time to hurt you." Holmes told with cruelty. "Give me..a name." The injured older man stubbornly shook his head, earning a foot pressing down roughly on his wound. "A name! Now! The name!"

"_Moriarty!_" shouted the murderer with his dying breath. The genius removed his foot and repeated the name in his head several times for a moment before mouthing it out that would play a major part later in the story.

* * *

**[Outside Ronald-Kerr; 11:32pm]**

Holmes sat in the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket once again placed around his shoulder for the fifth time. Finished dealing from some things inside the building, Lestrade joined him.

"Why have I got this blanket?' complained the genius when seeing him, "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." the other man told.

"I'm not in shock."

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock sighed before questioning, "So, the shooter—no sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here." the Inspector stated, "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but..we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." the eccentric said knowledgeably.

The detective sighed, "Okay. Give me."

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and..nerves of steel.." Sherlock began to drawl as he noticed John and Marisol standing not too far from where he was. The young woman gave a shy wave when he looked but it was her godfather that really caught his attention. The doctor stood in a militant stance; doing so being ingrained after several years of service. He knew then who the shooter was.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me." he told Lestrade.

"Sorry?" Lestrade said, thinking he heard wrong.

Holmes stood with the blanket still on. "Ignore all of that. It's just the, er..the shock talking." He began to leave and join his new friends.

"Where are you going?"

"I just need to..talk about the..the rent."

The Inspector followed, "I've still got questions."

"Oh, what now?! I'm in shock." He waved the blanket for emphasis. "Look, I've got a blanket."

"Sherlock—"

The genius prattled next, "And I just caught you a serial killer..more or less."

"Okay..we'll pull you in tomorrow." Lestrade instructed, "Off you go." He complied, at last joining the writer and veteran.

"..You all right?" Vallas asked with concern right away. Sherlock noticed she was shivering a bit and without her coat.

"Yes, I'm, uh, fine." he assured before taking off the shock blanket and then handing it to her. She gave a questioning look. "It's not for shock obviously but the cold. I noticed you forgot your coat."

"Uh, right." A sweet smile was given as the blanket was wrapped over her shoulders like a shawl. "Thank you." He nodded stiffly.

"Erm..Sergeant Donovan's..just been explaining everything. Two pills.." Watson said, shaking his head once. "Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock stared at him. "..Good shot."

"Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window."

"Well, _you'd_ know." the eccentric pressed adamantly, "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." John cleared his throat, peering around. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right." the doctor answered calmly.

"Well, you have just killed a man."

"Yes, I.." He paused, sharing a short glance with Marisol before looking back to Sherlock. "..That's true, isn't it? But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't, really, was he?" agreed Holmes.

"Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie." The three chuckled at that.

"That's true, he was a bad cabbie." They began to leave the scene together. "You should have seen the route he took us to get here." They burst into more laughter.

"Stop! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene." scolded the young woman, though she was still laughing. "Stop it, hehe."

"He's the one who shot him." noted Sherlock just as the trio passed by Sally.

"Keep your voice down!" John reprimanded him before saying to the sergeant. "Sorry, it's just, erm..nerves, I think."

"Sorry." Sherlock told her half-heartedly. The woman narrowed her eyes at them before continuing on. When they were a good distance away from not being heard by any officers, the doctor queried.

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time." the genius informed smoothly, "Knew you two would turn up."

"No, you didn't." denied the other man, "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." Marisol deadpanned, making him smile. She became serious then. "Look, John and I had only just met you and we saw clearly that you were clever and always will..so that should be enough. You don't need the whole world to." She reached over to give his arm a gentle touch, uttering. "Something to remember if you're ever at your lowest, Sherlock." He nodded, somewhat moved by what she told him.

Composing himself again, he asked them. "Dinner?"

"Starving." John replied.

"Oh, definitely." agreed the writer.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese. Stays open till two." Sherlock stated as they walked off again. "You can tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle." But John wasn't listening as he saw the man would questioned him earlier step out of a car.

"Sherlock..that's him," he told quickly, "That's the man I was talking to you about."

The eccentric looked, narrowing his clear blues. "I know exactly who that is."

"So..another case cracked." his arch-enemy said upon joining the three with his assistant, 'Anthea.' "How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Holmes questioned harshly.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern.'"

"Always so aggressive." the man chuckled, "Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough..no." Sherlock told snarkily.

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe." the stranger stated, "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer..And you know how it always upset Mummy." The godchild and parent's brows furrowed simultaneously with confusion.

"_I_ upset her?" scoffed the genius, "Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No. No, wait.." John interrupted, "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother. Our mother." his new friend explained as last, "This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft corrected snidely.

"He's your brother?"

"Course he's my brother."

"So he's not—"

"Not what?" The siblings looked at Watson questioningly.

"I don't know..criminal mastermind?" guessed Watson.

"..Close enough." Sherlock drawled.

His brother laughed, "For goodness' sake, I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He _is_ the British Government when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock then addressed him lastly. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home—you know what it does for the traffic." He walked away afterwards.

"..Wow, haha." Marisol uttered with a grin before following him. John did the same but paused, glancing back at Mycroft.

"So, when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?"

"Yes, of course."

"It actually is a childish feud?"

"He's always been so resentful." informed the other man, "You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah.." the doctor drawled, looking at the retreating Sherlock before denying, "No..God, no. I'd better, erm.." He noticed 'Anthea' then. "Hello again."

"Hello." she greeted politely.

"Yes, we met earlier on this evening."

"..Oh!" the woman said, seeming to have forgotten him.

His good daughter had returned and said blandly as she tugged on his coat sleeve. "Come on, John."

"Okay. Good night." he told the other Holmes before leaving.

"Good night, Dr. Watson." Mycroft said, watching the group go.

"Sir, shall we go?" asked his assistant.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow and his goddaughter." he commented, "They could be the making of my brother..or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade 3 active."

"Sorry, sir—whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

"So, dim sum." John stated the dish he was going to get.

"Mmm!" Sherlock hummed, "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't." smirked Vallas.

"Almost can." he smirked back before stating suddenly, "You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" the two questioned, off-guard.

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

"Oh. Yeah, shoulder." the doctor replied when realizing he was talking about himself.

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No, you didn't." Watson contradicted.

"The left one." noted Holmes.

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes, you do." smiled Marisol before noticing his own. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty." was her single reply.

John asked him curiously, "What's 'Moriarty'?"

"I've absolutely no idea." he informed them with glee.

**-TBC-**

* * *

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	8. Phantom Killer

_A short note to tell: _

_if there's a song that you think fits the story or Marisol/Sherlock, leave a review and I'll put on the playlist ^ ^_

_**-Clever.**_

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently) for language, suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

**_-TV-based_**

_**-Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter Eight:

_"Phantom Killer"_

**[National Antiques Museum; 5:20pm on February 9th]**

A group of visitors, all ethnicity and ages, stood around a table where a beautiful Chinese woman sat, giving a tea ceremony demonstration.

"The great artisans say the more the teapot is used the more beautiful it becomes. The pot is seasoned by repeatedly pouring tea over the surface. The deposit left on the clay created this beautiful patina over time. Some pots, the clay has been burnished by tea made over four hundred years ago."

That was the last time tea demonstration for the day. The museum was starting to close, only ten minutes for visitors to leave. The woman stayed where she was, taking her time of cleaning and putting away the delicate clay teapots. She was so engrossed in their care, that she failed to noticed someone was behind her—an awkward but average looking young man who worked along with her at the museum.

"Four hundred years old, they're letting you use it to make yourself a brew." he noted, jesting innocently.

"Some things aren't supposed to sit behind glass, they're made to be touched. To be handled." she told him, glancing back briefly. A soft stricken sigh escaped her, picking one pot up. "These pots need attention. The clay is cracking."

"Well, I can't see how a tiny splash of tea is going to help." the man chuckled.

"Sometimes you have to look hard at something to see its value." replied the woman before picking another one that was more shinier and showing him. "See? This one shines a little brighter."

"I don't suppose.." he began, finally getting to the point of talking to her. "Um, I mean..I don't suppose that you want to have drink? Not tea, obviously. Um, in a pub, with me, tonight. Um..?"

"You wouldn't like me all that much." she kindly warned.

"Can I maybe decide that for myself?"

"..I can't. I'm sorry. Please stop asking." she finished, closing the box holding the teapots and other instruments.

The Chinese woman is later alone in the museum's artifacts storage. It is quiet until the sound of a door lock clicking is heard.

"Is that security?" she called out, receiving no answer. Cautiously, she stepped out of the storage locker and see no one visibly there. "Hello?" A draft stirred the ends of a cloth that was covered a statue..the sheet had not been there when she had arrived. With slow steps, she walked towards it and gently pulled the sheet away when standing before it. Horror lit her face at whatever was there..

* * *

**[Marketplace; 12:43pm on February 10th]**

Two weeks had passed since moving in with Sherlock Holmes. John was still getting accustom to his lifestyle and behavior. The eccentric never really left the apartment unless investigating, so the shopping was mostly left up to him. But it was easier said than done. At the self-checkout, Watson was taking his time scanning items even with a long line of people behind him. Though the machine was being unreliable and slowly grating on the doctor's nerves with its' annoying computerized voice. He angrily gave up at some point and stormed away, leaving the unpaid food.

* * *

**[221B; 12:50pm]**

At Baker Street, Sherlock was having a battle of his own but a far more deadly kind with an Arabian assassin. But unlike his flatmate, he didn't give up and instead triumphed. Though when Watson returned to flat, evidences of a fight were not seen or thought as he found the other man casually sitting in his armchair with a book.

"You took your time." Sherlock said upon his return.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping." John told, looking around the apartment. It seemed a bit different somehow to him.

Holmes looked away from his book. "What? Why not?"

"Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and PIN machine." the doctor informed with annoyance.

"You..you had a row with a machine?" his flatmate repeated, sounding slightly baffled by his statement.

Watson sighed frustratingly, closing his eyes for a second. "Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

"Take my card." The genius nodded towards the kitchen then, smirking with amusement. John walked that way but paused, turning back to him to angrily reprimand.

"You could always go yourself, you know, you've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left." Sherlock briefly thought back to earlier and decided then against proving the other man wrong.

"Oh, dear, trouble in paradise already?" The two men turned. Marisol had strolled in.

"Please. Don't tease about that too." her godfather said blankly, making her laugh.

For the past two weeks, she had visited almost everyday. She was finishing up being an intern to Professor Montgomery and currently was carefully getting her affairs settled upon soon graduating with a Bachelor's degree for writing in the coming spring. So she had some time on her hands. Since John had left their old apartment that the two had lived in since her father's passing, Vallas had moved out and got a more decent and reasonably priced loft in the city close to the college and not too far from Baker Street. But when not at _Goldsmiths_ or being a waitress at a local pub, the young woman enjoyed spending her free time in the company of Watson and Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson. She minded to the cooking and cleaning for the men—mostly Sherlock, for he was an untidy sort. Even with her around, she didn't worry or tend after her godfather too much anymore, seeing that he was back to his old self.

Sherlock pretended to be busy reading, but he stealthy watched her. That day, she had came in wearing the beige trench coat he was accustom to seeing on her now. Upon removing said coat, a navy floral-patterned v-neck dress was what she wore. The dress was knee-length, exposing her legs that were covered in dark tights that gave the illusion of lace and pink cutout oxfords on her feet. His brows furrowed and he quickly looked away from her body. Lately, the man had developed an odd habit of observing her style of clothing. He instead moved his attention on what she was placing down on the coffee table. It was the normal; the tan leather satchel but there was a new addition—a small open-faced motorcycle helmet with a _Hello Kitty_ design.

"That's a new helmet." he noted aloud, "You must have purchase a motorcycle recently."

"A motorcycle? What do you need one of those for?" John questioned with surprise.

"For both of your information, it's a scooter and it's to drive me places that's what it's for." she replied in a dead tone before pointing an angry finger at Holmes. "And you ruined the surprise."

The man shrugged, returning to his book. "I simply was observing. You were planning on telling John anyway." She bit back replying childishly with, 'That's not the point!'

"What wrong with taking a cab or the Tube?" asked the doctor.

"Nothing, but a guy I know well from Cambridge was selling it and showed me a picture. I fell in love with it at first sight." A happy smile formed, lighting up her pretty face. "It's a _Vespa_, pastel yellow, been in restoration for a year and it looks brand new. I saw it yesterday and bought it off him today." She picked up the helmet. "He gave me this in addition."

"You spent some of your inheritance on a scooter for how much?"

"About £600."

"600?! Marisol, that is far too much!"

"What? Come on. I'll save alot more money with this than using a cab all the time." the young woman reasoned with crossed arms. "There's still a bunch of cash in my trust fund that Grams left. My only real luxuries have been my laptop, my phone, my apartment, and now the Vespa—all things needed in _my_ life." Her grandmother had died with some money to her name. So in her will, all of it had been given to Marisol on her twenty-first birthday—a total of £100,000. With that sum and the money left by her father, the writer was well off.

Watson raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay! Just be wise about your spending is all I'm saying."

"I am." she stated with an exultant smirk. "So, why were you scolding Sherlock when I came in?"

"I went to the shop, had a row with the chip and PIN machine—"

A delicate brow raised. "Again?"

"This has happened more than once?" queried Holmes, entertained.

"Not the point!" the veteran noted with chafe before finishing, "And I was telling Sherlock that he could have gone and got the shopping since he's been sitting there all morning." He went to the kitchen then, fishing out his flatmate's card from his wallet now.

"Oh, what happened about the case you were offered—" Marisol pondered curiously, glancing to the eccentric for an answer. "The Jaria diamond, wasn't it?"

"Not interested." he stated, indifferent. The book was closed and he briefly glanced down, seeing the sword from the assassin peeking out from under the chair. The heel of his shoe pushed in back out of sight secretively when John turned his back..though, the young woman noticed but said nothing at all; the only evidence of her knowing was the tiny tilt the corner of her lips made. "I sent them a message."

Placing down the wallet, Watson noticed a long scratch on the cluttered wooden table in the kitchen that hadn't been there. He rubbed, thinking it was just a smudge but with no success. A heavy sigh escaped him as he realized not all had been right while he left as his instinct had presumed. The man shook his head and tutted under his breath, giving a quick look at the genius.

"So, what are you doing here? Isn't your lunch break almost over?" John asked his goddaughter then.

"It's Monday, morning class only. But I'm really here—" Vallas stepped closer to Holmes suddenly and took his book. "To get this! Sherlock, I was having a fit looking for it! I was suppose to return it back today along with the others."

His curly brown haired head titled. "Really? It was today?" The doctor smirked as he watched. Oh, he knew it was. The man just enjoyed irritating the writer for some odd reason. Personally, John thought it was insane, him doing so, since Marisol could be frightening like a war-rage Greek Goddess on a hellbent path when absolutely furious. But it was also funny too and reminded him at times of a comedy act from the genius' calm, heedless demeanor and the young woman's heated, snarky one.

"Yes! Geez! If you want me to get you books from the uni's library," she huffed, "Make sure they're _all_ together when going to be returned."

"I'm gonna go try getting the shopping again..hopefully with more success." John announced; a laugh notable in his voice from their banter.

"I'm leaving too now." his goddaughter sighed, retrieving her satchel and helmet.

"Wait, before you do, I've complied another list of books for you to get." Holmes informed then, nodding to the desk beside him. "It's on the table."

"Oh, goodie." Marisol said dripping with sarcasm while getting said list. She skimmed it with a groan. "You just love torturing me, don't you?"

"Punishment for slapping me." grinned the eccentric. Two weeks had passed and he still wouldn't let it go no matter how much she apologized.

"I'd slap you again," she glared, "If it weren't for what I feared you'd do to me next. I'll get your stupid books but next time, go yourself, you hermit. And you're watching Daisy for me since I have to take a cab now to carry all this."

"_Daisy?_" the two men repeated with non-hidden mirth.

"My_ Vespa_, and yes, I named it." the young woman said snippy before striding out. "Don't judge me."

* * *

An hour later, a tired Watson returned again with several heavy grocery bags this time. He would have been back sooner if he had cash on him to take a bus or cab. Instead, the doctor walked, deciding possibly at first that he needed the exercise. Sherlock, now sat at the desk; John's laptop open in front of him. An email from someone he knew was what he was contemplatively reading.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage." John said sardonic, wobbling into the kitchen to put the food down. He looked at Holmes. "..Is that my computer?"

"Of course."

"What?!"

"Mine was in the bedroom." Sherlock stated, typing away.

"What? And you couldn't be bothered to get up?" exclaimed his flatmate, incredulous. "It's password protected."

"In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours," Clear blues looked at him briefly. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right. Thank you." The doctor took back his laptop and went to sit down. The genius said nothing; just steeple his hands in thought. Meanwhile, John looked over the bills that were past due on the small lamp table by the red chair.

"Need to get a job." he remarked.

"Oh, dull." drawled the eccentric in comment.

"Listen, um.." began the veteran, "..if you'd be able to lend me some..Sherlock, are you listening?" Before he could reply, a clambering came from the stairway along with a strings of profanity. John stood and hurried to the door, seeing Marisol struggling with a large stack of books in her arms.

"Let me get those." he said, scurrying to her side to take them.

"Yes, please do." she said wearily, walking pass him when he did and collapsing unladylike on the couch. Her eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again, a bottle of water was offered to her..by Sherlock.

She took the drink, surprised. "Oh..thanks."

"..Thank you for getting my books." he replied softly, if not shyly. Dark brown eyes blinked, amazed even more. He headed for the door and stated, "I need to go to the bank." The veteran and young woman stared after him, off-guard for a second. Marisol perked up and stood with her water bottle still in hand with a knowledgeable grin.

"_He's got another interesting case."_

* * *

**[Shad Sanderson; 1:48pm]**

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank.." John trailed as the three strolled into a busy lobby..but an investment and stock trading one. A high-class place from the tall glass structure and its' obvious modernism and business dressed people walking about. They took an escalator to get to the front desk; Sherlock all the while observing every chaotic movement and objects around.

"This feels more like a hotel than a bank if you ask me." muttered the young woman, looking around. When arriving at the desk, all Sherlock had to do was tell his name and they were shortly escorted to the office of Sebastian, the current chairman in the International Trading Department. He was a posh man but overly confident in attitude that made him haughty.

"Sherlock Holmes." he said upon meeting in his office.

"Sebastian." the genius greeted formally, shaking hands. Even the man's handshake was obnoxious.

"Hiya, buddy. How long—eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

"Yes. These are my friends, John Watson and Marisol Vallas."

Sebastian looked, surprised by what he addressed them. "Friends?"

"Colleague." Watson corrected, shaking hands with him.

"Right." the trader noted; that seeming more understandable. Either noticed the change in Holmes' demeanor except Marisol. She saw that what her godfather said upset him; not thinking he would correct being called his friend but he would say nothing about it being the man he was. She briefly reminded herself to later scold John for that remark.

So when it was her turn to shake hands with Sebastian, she stated kindly, "I'm really the only _true_ friend here." He may grated her nervous at times but she wasn't ashamed to consider him a friend. She didn't have many so when she called you one, you were that to her for life unless otherwise.

"And a pretty friend he's got too." Sebastian chuckled. She gave a smile filled with mock-flattery. He went to his desk. "Grab a pew. Do you need anything, coffee, water?" They all denied any refreshments before seating. Sherlock looked to Vallas briefly and she gave a wink which made him smirk, cheering him up. The doctor and genius sat in the chairs across Sebastian while the writer stood behind them.

"So you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot." noted Holmes.

"Well, so?" the trader shrugged indifferently.

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month."

Sebastian scoffed with a laugh. "Right. You're doing that thing. We were at uni together, and this guy here had a trick he used to do. He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"It's not a trick." Sherlock uttered.

"Yes, we've seen him do it." Watson informed, glancing at his flatmate.

"Put the wind up everybody, we hated it." Sebastian told. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night." Marisol steeled herself from snapping at the man for calling her friend a freak. She now immediately hated him, putting him top of the list along with Sally Donovan.

"I simply observed." he stated calmly, all but peeved.

"Go on, enlighten me." his old uni colleague requested, finding his deducing to be a fun little game. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world, you're quite right. How could you tell?" The eccentric went to speak but he continued on, "Are you going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

"No, I—"

"Is it the mud on my shoes?"

The genius stared for a moment then stated, "I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me." Vallas raised a questioning brow while Watson had a curious expression.

Sebastian laughed before getting to the reason for their visit. "I'm glad you could make it over, we've had a break-in." He lead them out of his office then to show where the break-in occurred. "Sir William's office—the bank's former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" asked the doctor.

"Nothing." he was told, "Just left a little message." Using an access card, Sebastian showed them into the room where a wall and a painting of the former chairman were used for two strange symbols spray-painted yellow. The trio stared at the graffiti message. The case was indeed interesting so far. The group returned to the trader's office to watch the security video of the phenomenon.

"Sixty seconds apart." he informed them of how much video feed was missing. Before that time, the office was normal and after the graffiti was there as shown. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock questioned.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting." Back down at the front desk in the lobby, a floor plan of the trading room. "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets locked right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night?" Holmes figured what his old uni colleague really wanted to know.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you—five figures." A check was removed from Sebastian's inner coat pocket. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in. There's a bigger one on its way."

"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian." the genius remarked smoothly, walking away to get to work. Marisol smirked and followed after him, leaving John and said man alone together.

"He's, er.." John cleared his throat. "..he's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him? Thanks." He took it and read the large sum written out. It made him take a deep breath and sigh of relief—the past due bills would be taken care of most definitely.

* * *

**[Sir William Shad's Office; 2:10pm]**

The shuttering sound of a photo being taken was all that were heard in the room—Sherlock using his _Blackberry's_ camera to store the symbols for future research. Marisol leaned on the door frame, staring intently at the message while biting her lower lip thoughtfully. The genius had finished taking photos and was slowly turning about the room, pausing when spying the young woman's posture.

"..You've seen these before, haven't you?"

"Yeah, they seem familiar.." she replied, walking further inside for close examination. "But I can't remember where. It'll come to me eventually though. Always does at the last minute."

"That's not much help." he deadpanned, continuing his observing of the room.

"I never say it would be." the young woman responded in an equally dead tone. Clear blue eyes rolled and then discovered an openable window that was camouflaged and obscured by the open shades. Sherlock looked from it to the doorway and back again before striding to the window. Drawing the blinds, he opened the glass panel, stepping outside onto the ledge. There was a pointed domed structure seen directly across from the office and down below, the roofs of two building along with Shad Anderson's towering one.

The writer came over, peeking her head out for a second. "No way. What you're thinking is like something from a spy movie, it's insane that what it is."

"But not impossible." the genius contradicted, returning inside. Now she watched him office as he moved around the cubicles and ducked down before popping back up. Vallas held back laughter as she thought he resembled an animal popping up out of its' hole and looking for any nearby danger. The workers of Shad Anderson were staring at him also, but with curious and perplexed expressions. The genius certainly was an odd sight to behold. The purpose of his silly movement was to see where in the area some of the message could be clearly seen by someone. He hit his mark when seeing the vandalized painting by someone's office. Observing the nameplate, it read Edward Van Coon, Hong Kong Desk Head. He took the name and returned to the office, saying to the young woman.

"Time to go find John."

* * *

The trio regrouped at the front desk. "..Two trips around the world this month." John noted suddenly, "You didn't ask his secretary, you said that just to irritate him." Sherlock smiled. "How did you know?"

"Did you see his watch?"

"His watch?"

"The time was right, but the date was wrong." Holmes explained, "Said two days ago. Crossed the date line twice and he didn't alter it."

"Within a month?" Marisol raised a brow. "How did you get that?"

"New Breitling. Only came out this February."

"Okay. So do you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?" Watson asked as they rode the escalator down to the downstairs lobby.

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks." the genius told, "That graffiti was a message. Someone at the bank, working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and.."

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it?" finished the other man, understanding.

"Obvious."

"Well, there's 300 people up there, who was it meant for?"

"Pillars?"

"What?" John and Marisol said together.

"Pillars and the screens." Holmes clarified for them, "Very few places you could see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course, the message was left at 11:34 last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?" the doctor noted as they left the bank.

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for somebody who came in at midnight." Sherlock removed the nameplate from his pocket, showing his acquaintances. "Not many Van Coons in the phone book."

**-TBC-**

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	9. Influence

_**-Clever.**_

_**-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC**_

_**-Rated: T (currently) for language, suggested violence, and slight adult situations**_

**_-TV-based_**

_**-Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own the OCs introduced.**_

* * *

Chapter Nine:

_"Influence"_

**[Outside Van Coon's Apartment Building; 2:41pm]**

The trio stood on the front steps by a buzzer panel with names of the apartment's tenants. Sherlock pressed the buzzer by the engraved name card, Van Coon. There was no response. He rung again with the same result.

"So what do we do now?" Vallas questioned, pulling her coat tighter because of the chill from the rain. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

"Just moved in."

"What?"

He pointed to the name above Van Coon; the name card was paper and 'Wintle' was written in blue ink.. "Floor above, new label."

"Could have just replaced it." John pointed out but Holmes pressed the buzzer anyway.

"No one ever does that." he told him just before a female's voice called a questioning hello. "Hi, um, I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've met."

"_No, well, er, I've just moved in._"

The genius glanced the others briefly with a victorious look. "Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat."

"_Do you want me to buzz you in?_"

"Yeah. And can we use your balcony?" he asked casually.

"_What?_"

With some smooth talking, the eccentric managed to convince the woman to allow him to use her balcony. Because of that, he was able to drop below onto Van Coon's patio. And just like at Sir William's office, the patio door was left open. He walked around inside. The apartment was pristine with monochrome interior design; almost seeming to be barely used. The only evidence in the living room of someone having to lived there was a stack of paperback books on a table. Moving on to observe the kitchen, he opened the fridge; full of champagne but no food. Next, the tiny bathroom where it was also nice and impeccable with normal items—like hand towels and a dispenser of liquid soap. The apartment's doorbell rang suddenly.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?" Watson's voice came from behind the door. Though said person didn't answer, continuing his tour until arriving at what had to be the bedroom. "..Yeah, any time you like letting us in!"

The room was locked—a bad sign already. With his shoulder, he rammed into the doors and they came free. Inside, on the bed, Van Coon laid dead with a bullet hole in his right temple and a stainless steel _SIG Sauer P226_ at his side..

* * *

**[Van Coon's apartment; 2:57pm] **

"Do you think he'd lost a lot of money?" pondered John, "Suicide is pretty common among City boys." The police had been called right when the body was found. Forensics were the first on the scene, right away bagging and identifying potential evidence.

"We don't know that it was suicide." stated Sherlock, rummaging through the dead victim's dirty suitcase laundry on the floor but an odd, large impression was left visible among the clothing..

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside, you had to climb down the balcony." Watson noted firmly.

"And you don't think someone else could have done the same?" informed Vallas lowly so none of the Forensics team in the room overheard. "Break in, kill Van Coon and then make it look like an apparent suicide before bolting? Like Sherlock said, crazy, but apparently not impossible."

"Been away three days judging by the laundry." Sherlock stood, facing them again. "Look at the case, there was something tightly packed inside it."

"Thanks. I'll take your word for it." the doctor declined, meaning what he said.

"Problem?" the genius queried briskly.

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear." his flatmate explained his lack of enthusiasm.

"All right, girls." Marisol told with an impatient roll of her dark eyes.

Holmes stepped away from the case, going back to the bed to examine the body. "Those symbols at the bank, the graffiti, why were they put there?

"Some sort of cryptography, I guess." the young woman assumed.

"Obviously." he agreed while checking various places on Van Coon. "Why were they painted? Want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering." stated John after a moment of thought.

"Oh, good, you follow." Sherlock said blandly.

"Nope." he was told.

"What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?"

"A bad one, duh." she deadpanned, responding before her godfather could. The eccentric paused in his searching for a moment to smirk at her, amused. She gave one in return. He looked to John briefly, continuing where he stopped a second ago.

"What about this morning? Those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills?" At that moment, Sherlock carefully removed a small bit of black paper that was folded into origami from Van Coon's parted mouth. Marisol gagged, covering her own to stop from barfing. John, undeterred, leaned in for a closer observation.

"Yes. He was being threatened." uttered Holmes, placing the origami in an evidence baggie.

"Not by the Gas Board." confirmed Watson softly. Just then, a man either of the group had seen before joined them.

"..see if we can get prints off this glass." he ordered one of the Forensics before noticing the trio. John and Marisol had been both expecting to see Lestrade, not this person that personally didn't seem all that experience in the 'current situation's' department.

"Ah, sergeant, we haven't met." the eccentric addressed him, walking over to offer his hand. The newcomer didn't accept the gesture, placing both hands on his hips and speaking with a cold response.

"Yeah, I know who you are," the man told, not impressed by the world's only consulting detective. "And I would prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." He peered at others, subtly meaning them as well. Sherlock said nothing to his rudeness and simply handed over the bag with the soggy origami.

"I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" he asked, silently hoping he didn't have to work with this stranger alone. He knew right away the sergeant wouldn't let him be completely 'helpful' or tolerate his method of working in the case as much as Greg did.

"He's busy. I'm in charge." he was informed, "And it's not Sergeant, it's Detective Inspector Dimmock." Said person walked away. Sherlock glanced back at his companion who were just as surprised as he was.

"..Well, he's a pocket full of sunshine, ain't he?" the writer noted blankly. They followed after the Inspector then; Sherlock leading the way with Vallas and Watson close behind. The young woman watched him. He was annoyed. She could tell from tiny furrowing of his brows and the hurried removal of the rubber gloves. Plus, the emotion seemed to radiated off his body but only she seemed to notice. Like him, she had been noticing far too many details about the apathetic detective. Marisol just summed it as just her observant nature and nothing more.

Dimmock gave the bag to a Forensics member. "We're obviously looking at a suicide."

"It does seem the only explanation of all the facts." noted John, speaking his firm assumption of the crime scene.

"Wong, it's one possible explanation of some of the facts." Holmes corrected harshly, snapping off his rubber gloves. Clear blues looked from Dimmock to John. "You've got a solution that you like, but you are choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" questioned the Inspector.

"Wound's on the right side of his head."

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed." Sherlock stated, gesturing out mockingly how impossible it was for the dead left-handed man to shot himself there. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

The younger man stared at him in disbelief. "Left-handed?"

"I'm sorry, but can you please construct more than a one word sentence?" blurted Vallas who pinched the bridge of her nose. "Or just let Sherlock speak without your interjections because it's very annoying."

The men all looked at her. "What? I can't be the only one who was thinking that. He's like a bit of an owl.." An indifferent expression was placed on the man of discussion."..except less cute." Dimmock flushed, taken back by her rude statement. The eccentric grinned, momentarily forgetting the crime. He was far more interested in what would come out of that unpredictable girl.

"Marisol!" her godfather scolded lightly, receiving a small shrug as a reply. He stared. John still couldn't believe how publicly bold her goddaughter had become. But the older man had a notion as to whom had struck such behavior to occur regularly..a certain tall, unsociable consulting detective, to be more specific..

"Anyway, I'm amazed you didn't notice." the genius continued; the grin still present on his face. "All you have to do is look around this flat. Coffee table on the left-hand side," He pointed at the mentioned object then. "Coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets, habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left of the phone. Picked up with his right, took messages with his left." He paused, glancing towards the Inspector. "D'you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you've covered it." Watson replied for them both.

But it was useless. "I might as well, I'm almost at the bottom of the list." His companion just sighed. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion, someone broke in here and murdered him—only explanation of _all_ of the facts."

"But the gun—"

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." finished Holmes, stepping away to retrieve his belongings.

Dimmock was truly baffled by this news. "..What?" Marisol mentally groaned with a shake of her head; making her curls bounce a bit.

"Today at the bank, sort of a warning." explained the veteran simply.

The eccentric then added, "He fired a shot when his attacker came in."

"And the bullet?"

"Went through the open window."

"Oh, come on!" the Detective Inspector denied. "What are the chances of that?!"

"Wait until you get the ballistic report." he was instructed, "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from the inside," Dimmock pondered, "How did the killer get in?"

"Good, you're finally asking the _right_ questions." And with that Holmes left, leaving him to his own investigating.

* * *

**[An Unnamed Posh Restaurant in Central London; 3:30pm]**

The atmosphere was calm and refine in the restaurant as the dim lighting and design set the mood. There weren't many people inside since the lunch hour was winding down. But from the guests, there was a various of them—from business to families—though all had one thing in common which was their financial status. Just stepping into the place even before striding up to the banker's table of clients gave a 'you do not belong here' impression. The farfetched companions found the banker eating lunch while telling godawful jokes that his associates were unbelievably yucking up. With no hello or 'can we talk alone for a moment', Sherlock got right to the point of his former colleague wanted solved.

"It was a threat, that's what the graffiti meant." The others at the table paused and looked towards the new arrivals with confusion.

"..I'm kind of in a meeting." Sebastian informed; really not wanting to discuss the embarrassing matter then. "Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian." the eccentric told firmly. "One of your traders, someone who worked in your office, was killed."

Wilkes raised a brow. "What?"

"Van Coon." Watson clarified, "The police are at his flat."

"Killed?!"

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion." Holmes apologized unsympathetic to the other baffled men before addressing his old uni classmate. "Still want to make an appointment? Would maybe nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" The banker adjusted his collar nervously as he quickly contemplated. He made the right decision, going to the men's room for a more private conversation on the matter. Sherlock and John joined him while Marisol was left outside to watch the door.

"..Harrow, Oxford..very bright guy." the dead man's boss stated while washing his hands. 'Worked in Asia for a while, so—"

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts?" figured the doctor. The genius said not a word, listening with a pensive expression for hidden clues.

"Lost five million in a single morning, made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Who'd want to kill him?"

"We all make enemies." Sebastian replied with indifference as if that tidbit was commonplace.

John reasoned, "You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple." A message alert interrupted their conversation—it belonging to Wilkes.

"Not usually. Excuse me." The cell phone was removed and checked. The flatmates looked on with patient curiosity. "It's my chairman. Police have been on to him." His gaze directed towards Holmes. "Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

"Well, they're got it wrong, Sebastian." Sherlock noted snippy, stressing his next words. "He was murdered."

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that,"

"So?"

"—And neither does my boss." said Sebastian with resolve before leaving. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get sidetracked."

"..I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards." Watson declared sarcastically. His joke didn't receive a reply, chuckle, or a smirk from his companion. Just the view of his back as his flatmate left the restroom also. Neither Sebastian nor Dimmock believed this case was a homicide. And because of his least favorite traits, the genius needed to prove himself right to his simple-minded doubters always.

Upon stepping out, he found the writer seated cross-legged on the floor against the wall next to the door. Her arms were folded over her chest, appearing to be pouting; not enjoying that she had to be left out because of public restroom rules. Head tilting upwards at his arrival, Sherlock couldn't look away. She had been sulking and her expression reminded him that of a disciplined child on a timeout. A smirk formed on his lips and his hand began to reach down to brush back her wispy curved bangs affectionately. Marisol watched curiously as it neared. But he managed to return to his senses, recoiling as if she were a hot stove top. The reaction oddly disappointed her.

A blush tinted her cheeks at that thought._ "..But why..?" _An awkward moment passed before John joined the two then, much to both their relief.

"S-So, what happen in there? You lot weren't crossing swords, were ya'?" she joked crudely with a nervous laugh, trying to ease the uncomfortable atmosphere. Her godfather lightly chuckled but Sherlock's clear blues stared down at her, unamused. Vallas cringed. _"Smooth.." _

"Uh, no," Watson smiled, "Basically, Sebastian thinks we're spouting rubbish on this being a murder."

She sighed softly. "Of course," She faced the genius then; a small, teasing smile on her pink lips. "But our stubborn git's gonna prove him wrong no doubt." He blinked. A tightness formed in the center of his chest, startling him.

"..Come on, we're leaving." Holmes stated briskly, tired of being at the restaurant and a sudden need for fresh air..

* * *

**[Outside 221B; 4:00pm]**

When the cab came to the curb, Sherlock was the first to hop out, tossing money to the driver and striding inside Mrs. Hudson's home with those long legs of his, leaving the family members alone on the sidewalk. Marisol went to her Vespa at the spot where it was left and sat sideways on the seat. John came to stand in front of her.

"My feet hurt.." she complained, stretching out her legs as her toes wiggled in the pink oxfords. "Remind me to change into comfortable shoes before running around with Sherlock.."

"..I don't know about a 'next time', Mari."

The young woman tilted her head. "Eh?"

"What I mean is, go focus on your studies, job, and other stuff in your life." he clarified, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just for awhile, okay?"

"Oh, I see.." the writer frowned, adding in a dead tone. "I'm being a bother."

"Hey, that's not—"

"No, it's okay. I understand." She pulled out the keys to start the scooter and was going to leave when suddenly remembering that her helmet was inside. Cursing under her breath, she sent a quick text to Sherlock.

_Hey, do me a favor please and bring my helmet down. _

_Thanks. _

John grasped her arm gently. "Marisol, listen. I'm telling you this because I'm a bit concern Sherlock is becoming a bad influence on you."

"What? Couldn't you have just said that in the first place?" the young woman looked at him incredulous. "And why are you saying this all of a sudden?"

"You were really being mouthy today." the older man explained, "You weren't like this a lot until meeting him."

"..The only thing Sherlock ever influenced me about was to be myself. I owe him that, but this is me. I'm just not afraid anymore." A warning finger was pointed at him. "_Do not_ tell him I said that either!"

The doctor wiped a hand across his tired face. "All right, I'll give him that. But, and I can't stress this enough, you need to go out and live like a person in their twenties. Go make friends, have crazy but responsible fun."

"God, you're such a broken record, John." Marisol groaned childishly. "I don't want to do that and I have enough friends! You, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson."

"Friends your age, sweetheart."

Her gaze glanced to the side; arms crossed her chest stubbornly with a pout. "..They're all so immature.."

"What 'bout that Adam kid you work with?" her godfather suggested encouragingly, "You've mentioned more than once how perf—Mmph!" Small, slender hands covered his mouth. Vallas stared at him like he had just uttered the Dark Lord's name.

"I can't!" she squeaked with an embarrassed blush. "N-Not him!" John smiled behind her hands. How could she be a grown woman and still be able to do reactions like that of a child. At that moment, the window to the men's loft opened and Holmes stuck half his body out with her helmet in hand.

"Here!" he simply said before letting it go.

"W-Wait a second!" Vallas hurried over, almost knocking down John, in time to luckily catch it. Her dark eyes glared daggers up at the uncaring genius. "You could have broken it! Lazy arse!" A text chime was heard—

_There's a case! I have better things to do than be an errand boy for you. You've been warned, Vallas._

_SH_

An angry red flush crossed her cheeks. "But I asked nicely!" Sherlock just shrugged, returning inside.

"Still want to hang around that?" Watson asked blankly. From above, hidden by the curtain, the eccentric watched the young woman he treated meanly. She turned and replied to something the veteran said in a heated manner, pointing at the window. Whatever she said had made his flatmate burst out laughing. Even some strangers walking by seemed to chuckle or smile upon hearing. Marisol stomped her foot, probably telling the man to stop and that 'it wasn't funny' or 'I'm serious'. Sherlock grinned widely. She had the best reactions when teased by him, he'd never stop mentioning that. She was a word he never used as it was a tender sentiment. And sentiments, in his mind, were chemical defects. But his lips couldn't help unconsciously uttering,

"..How cute.."

**-TBC-**

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